


Here at the End of All Things

by queenitsy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rebellion, Terrorism (off screen), Torture (off screen), years pass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenitsy/pseuds/queenitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles could still remember Derek with a slave collar, so much younger: his face contorted with pain when he couldn't change on the full moon, his hand scrabbling at his neck like he was being choked. His fingers wrapped around the moonstone and metal, pulling and tearing for all he was worth, but still not strong enough to break it. How Derek had collapsed back against the wall in defeat, hands clenched into useless fists. </p>
<p>Stiles shuddered at the memory, not sure that Derek would survive it this time if they collared him. Scratch that -- sure Derek wouldn't <em>want</em> to survive it this time. He'd rather die than live as a slave to the Argents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I had infinite time and energy, this would be the last fic in a long, long series set in this 'verse. Unfortunately, I don't, so I've only written this last story. Here is the super duper short version of the backstory, with my apologies for copping out and putting it in this note:
> 
> This is an AU where the world knows about werewolves, and a few generations back the Argents developed a control collar that forces werewolves to obey orders (and screws with their supernatural abilities) and got permission to use it to enslave and sell werewolves. Derek was, briefly, the Stilinskis' slaves, things happened, and Stiles convinced Papa Stilinski to set Derek free (which was highly illegal at that point). Derek's personal vendetta against the Argents (of _course_ Kate murdered his family) turned into a wider werewolf rebellion against them. Meanwhile, he and Stiles have a lot of complicated, conflicted feelings about each other, but have never actually acted on them at all. All that went down about ten years before this picks up. (There's more detail and way more backstory in the fic itself, of course.)
> 
> Also: this is slavefic (duh), so please heed the warnings.

Things were never exactly calm and quiet in Beacon Hills, but they'd finally reached some sort of equilibrium. The lycan movement was still under incredibly intense scrutiny, but no one was actively interfering with them there anymore. By day, Beacon Hills was the one place where lycans could go about their daily lives without being harassed, where they all gathered to care for the dreaming alphas, where they kept one another safe and had achieved some sort of normal.

Of course by night, in basements and garages and sometimes out in the woods, it was where the _other_ branch of the lycan movement met, sharing notes and making plans. Everyone just called them the Network, and _they_ were the part of Beacon Hills that scared people, and that the government -- not to mention the Argents -- wanted to shut down. But first they'd have to find proof, and the lycans were very, very careful.

So it was good. Even if Stiles wasn't exactly sure what his place was anymore.

He still researched things when they needed him to. He took notes at the meetings (minutes for daytime meetings were available online; notes from the night time ones were stored under seven layers of encryption that only Danny knew how to access). He helped organize things like official marches and protests, getting the permits they needed -- and of course a _human_ needed to do it. Even with the uneasy truce that meant escaped lycans were no longer considered criminals, they still didn't have any rights and weren't citizens, either. 

So he did what he could to help. None of it was exactly the biggest contribution anyone had ever made to the lycan movement, but Stiles figured he earned his keep. And even though he wasn't doing anything all that important, it was enough that Derek usually had an excuse to drop by when he was in town. 

It shouldn't have mattered to Stiles. Derek had a hundred thousand things in his life more important than visiting him, and a hundred thousand reasons to avoid him at all costs. He went in phases where he did it, too -- he hadn't shown up at all for the first eight months Stiles and Erica were together. Stiles hadn't put that together for awhile, until he'd heard second-hand that Derek had been in town enough times that it was obvious Derek just hadn't wanted to see him. Not that Stiles blamed him, after everything. But it still hurt like a blow to the gut.

Then again, knowing Derek would avoid him when he wanted to made him feel a little better about how elated he was whenever Derek _did_ show up. The times he'd just appear at a meeting Stiles was attending or, rarer still, just... at his house.

Like now.

Stiles wasn't sure what woke him. It sure as hell wasn't Derek, who basically defined "the strong and silent type," with an emphasis on silent. Stiles sat up in bed and saw a shadow against his shade. His shades were flimsy, almost translucent; they were shit at keeping light out. But Stiles didn't want anything darker or heavier. He liked to be able to see outside, to see the moon.

To see Derek. 

Derek was sitting on the flat garage roof outside Stiles's window, a few feet away, just basking in the moonlight. It was a week past full, waning, but still bright enough for even Stiles to see by. 

He could swear he hadn't made a noise, had barely even breathed, but even so, Derek's head snapped around to face him. Stiles raised his hand in a vague wave. Derek caught his eye, nodded a tiny bit, then turned away, staring back up into the sky. Stiles sighed a little and reached for the window frame, just to make sure it wasn't locked.

Of course it wasn't. He never locked it. Not that Derek didn't have keys to the house, or couldn't simply bash in the door or the window if he really wanted to get in. But it was the principle of the thing. He and Derek were... they were something to each other. Stiles didn't pretend to know what; he wasn't even sure what he wanted them to be. But the roof had always been Derek's perch, and he was never going to lock Derek out.

*

Stiles could smell breakfast cooking when he woke up. He smiled a little to himself, took a shower, and walked down to the kitchen. His father was reading the paper at the kitchen table, and Derek was making breakfast. Stiles helped himself to a mug of coffee and said, "Hey."

Derek grunted. He was never exactly a verbose guy, but in the mornings he stuck even closer to caveman noises.

"I didn't know you were going to be around," Stiles said. 

Derek didn't answer, but a minute later he put down a plate of eggs, toast, and half a grapefruit in front of Stiles, and another in front of his father.

"Thanks," his dad said. "Will you be in town long? We can make up the guest bed."

Stiles snorted. "And maybe this time you'll actually use it."

"Ah." His father laughed a little. "Slept on the roof again last night? Any excuse this time?"

Derek gave them a withering look, and pointed down at his father's plate. "Eat."

"Happily." He picked up the fork and added, "Well, you're welcome to stay wherever. Guest bed, couch, roof. Our casa, su casa."

Derek nodded, just a little, and turned back to the stove to make his own breakfast. Stiles felt a little pang of guilt, because Derek always cooked for them first, always took care of them first. He didn't know why -- after all these years, it couldn't just have been habit left over from _those_ days. The ones Stiles didn't like to think about, didn't like to name.

Derek had been their slave. 

Stiles didn't understand why he came back at all.

Derek didn't sit down to eat, just lurked by the kitchen counter, plate in one hand and fork in the other. He didn't talk, put his dishes in the sink when he was done, and gave Stiles a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, I'll wash everything," Stiles promised. And, after a long moment, he added, "Before the mess dries and gets hard to get off, Jesus, stop with the eyebrows."

Derek smirked, just a little, and walked out. 

Stiles had never been good at remembering to do the dishes. 

*

He didn't really sleep that night, since he spent most of it wondering if Derek was going to show up. Sure enough, as it neared 1 a.m., Derek settled into his usual place outside. As much as anything he did could be considered _usual_.

Stiles watched him for a few minutes, then slid the window open. Derek looked over at him, watching as he pulled a t-shirt on above his pajama pants and clambered out. The shingles were gritty and gross, slippery with mold in a few places, sticky with tar in others. It was hard to walk on the uneven surface, but he managed not to fall. He sat down near Derek and stared into the distance, at the empty street in front of the house.

"We're making progress," Stiles said, remembering how frustrated Derek had been all day. There had been good news lately, and plenty of it, but the Argents had caught six members of the lycan Network in the last month. Caught, collared, and killed, to send a message. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but --"

"Don't," Derek said.

So Stiles didn't. Derek knew the progress they'd made, and the setbacks; he was planning their next moves, deciding which Argent stronghold to bring down next. How he managed it all was beyond Stiles.

A breeze picked up and Stiles shivered. Derek peered at him, then said, "Why did you come out here, if you're just going to get cold?"

"Dunno. Why do you, every night?" Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, trying to conserve body heat.

Derek shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to Stiles, who pulled it over his shoulders. It was warm and smelled like Derek -- like old leather and something wild. He inhaled deeply, let the familiar scent wash over him. Scent was the sense most closely linked to memories, he'd heard that somewhere, and for all Stiles had dozens, maybe hundreds, of memories of Derek that he could play through his mind like movies, being close enough to really smell Derek brought him back to the same place, every time.

Derek, staring down a circle of angry lycans, pulling Stiles close to him. Snarling at them all, "He _is_ one of us." And then biting him hard enough that it bled. It bled a _lot_ , actually, and it left a scar, a permanent mark that said Stiles was a member of the pack.

"Thanks," Stiles said, mindlessly brushing his hand over the mark on his shoulder. 

Derek just grunted.

Stiles didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up the next morning in his own bed, the bottoms of his feet blackened from the roof, Derek's leather jacket clenched in his arms like a stuffed animal. The smells of breakfast wafted up from the kitchen.

*

Stiles didn't bother pretending he was going to sleep the next night. Derek was still in town, so he sat up reading, waiting for Derek to appear on the roof, then climbed out. It was actually harder to walk with his sneakers on, somehow. Maybe they were too worn, the tread not good enough, or maybe he just wasn't as sensitive to the weird dips and slippery spots without his bare skin pressed to them. 

He slipped, tried to catch his balance --

Derek's arms were suddenly warm and firm around him, anchoring him in place. "Whoa," Stiles breathed, as they held still like that for a few seconds. Then Derek shifted, depositing Stiles on his butt on the roof, and sat down next to him. "Thanks," Stiles said. "We can't all have supernatural balance, but I guess roofs are not my strong point. So much for ever being Batman."

"You miss her," Derek said.

Stiles blinked a few times. "You seem to have some hearing problems. Bat _man_ \--"

"Erica."

"Oh." Stiles caught up with Derek a few seconds late, as usual, because Derek didn't bother to vocalize any of the steps between A, B, and Q. But he got it now: Erica had always called him Batman, a sort of running joke. And, well. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

Stiles shrugged. "It happens. People break up all the time. It -- it's okay now. Mostly. Since it's been awhile."

"A year," Derek said. "Fourteen months."

"But who's counting?" Stiles wrapped his arms around his knees again. "Do you see her, ever? Is she doing okay?"

"Sometimes," Derek said. "And yes."

"Good." He hesitated, tongue swiping from cheek to cheek in his mouth, then, "I bet she gave you this speech, but just in case, you know it wasn't because of _you_ , right? I know you like to feel responsible for everyone you've ever met, but we didn't break up because of you."

"I know," Derek said, then amended, "She told me. She laughed at me."

"I'll bet." He chuckled, imagining it. If Erica had been laughing, then she was being sassy and fun, not cutting and mean like she got sometimes. He could picture her tossing her hair over her shoulder, putting her hand on her hip, and saying, "Really, Derek, you're just not that important to either of us." But with a smile, because of course he was that important, and they all knew it. And maybe they _had_ broken up because of him a little bit, but it wasn't his _fault_ , and neither one of them wanted him to blame himself. 

"She asks about you," Derek said. "When she knows I've been here, she asks how you are."

"Mm." Stiles leaned forward a little, chin on his knees. It was nice to know she still cared. "So is that why you check up on me like this? Lurk on my roof? So you can tell Erica I'm okay?"

"No."

"Oh." Stiles looked over at him, almost surprised. "Then why?"

"You're cold," Derek said. Which wasn't much of an answer.

"Yeah, it's cold out," Stiles said. "And yet I feel weirdly compelled to keep you company when you're doing your watchdog thing out here."

Derek narrowed his eyes at the dog comment. If Stiles hadn't known him for so many years, he'd recoil at the expression. But if he hadn't known Derek for years, he wouldn't have dared _make_ the dog comment. Lycans really didn't like being compared to canines.

"You can't have my jacket this time," Derek said, like it was some huge decision he'd just made.

"Okay." 

Derek waited a long minute, silent but staring, and then moved. He put an arm around Stiles, tugged him close. And Derek was _warm_. Like a living, breathing space heater. It felt nice. It felt _safe_. Stiles shifted closer, curling up against him, head on Derek's shoulder. Their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, and Stiles could hear Derek's heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of his chest. 

For a second, he thought Derek was going to kiss him.

But Derek looked away. Didn't say anything, didn't move. Stiles didn't either, just sat there and soaked in Derek's presence. It was weirdly soothing and he felt himself yawning after a few minutes.

He woke up in his own bed again, head on his pillow instead of Derek's shoulder, the scent of fresh coffee wafting upstairs.

*

The fourth day, the media got wind of the fact that Derek was in town. That was always the worst. Two-thirds of the country still thought Derek was a terrorist, and the other third thought he was Jesus. He usually did his best to stay out of sight, and he was really, really good at it, but there were always undercover reporters in Beacon Hills, and if he stayed more than a few days he got sighted eventually. 

That meant that the meetings were basically a circus, and no real business could take place. But everyone knew the drill. Derek spent the day sitting up at the front of some room, listening to horror stories of lycan abuse at the hand of the Argents, and at the hands of the people who'd purchased lycans from them, like they were objects. Or pets.

Derek couldn't do anything about it -- not legally -- and with this much media scrutiny, all the testimonies would do was _protect_ the abusers. Any retribution would be tied back to Derek, and the Network wouldn't allow that to happen. It was frustrating and useless, _and_ the street outside was flooded with protesters and reporters and photographers with Daehler cameras, sophisticated enough to catch lycans on film.

Stiles could see how tense it made Derek. If _he_ could hear the crowds, that meant Derek heard every word, every chant. Every protester who thought he needed to be collared and put down. They'd need the police to escort him out, and to -- where? Derek didn't exactly have a home address, not even here in Beacon Hills. Anywhere he put down roots got vandalized, whether it was just graffiti calling him a mad dog or something much worse. He'd had a house, for a few months, a couple years ago. Someone had blown it up. Derek's senses and healing ability had saved him; he'd caught the bomb's scent moments before it detonated and had managed to run far enough that all it did was damage him. He'd healed within minutes, before the psycho could gun him down -- not that he hadn't tried.

Well, shit.

When the round of stupid, pointless meetings ended, Stiles tried to grab Derek's attention, to let him know... he wasn't sure. He wanted Derek to come home with him, to where he'd be safe. But it _wouldn't_ be safe if Derek was there, and he didn't want to put his father at risk, either.

It didn't matter anyway. He made the mistake of blinking, and the next thing he knew, Derek was gone. He checked his window that night, to make sure it was unlocked, and waited up for hours. Around 3 a.m., he sighed and finally changed into his pajamas. Derek must have found somewhere else for the night.

*

Derek was gone for four months. Stiles tried not to worry, as word drifted back through the Network. And when Derek appeared back in Beacon Hills suddenly, obviously enough that cameras caught him everywhere, Stiles knew what was coming. Four days later, it hit -- headlines that proclaimed another Argent facility had gone up in flames. Another moonstone shattered, another set of alphas freed, another hundred lycan collars deactivated. 

Derek was behind it, and everyone knew it. But he'd been in Beacon Hills the week of the explosion, and there was no evidence linking him to it. They were always so careful about that. 

He didn't show up at Stiles's place once the whole time he was in town. Probably because of all the scrutiny on him -- it wasn't like it was a secret that he and Stiles were friends, but Stiles still didn't need a dozen reporters camping out on his lawn. Not that Stiles would have turned him away if he'd shown up.

*

Derek did come by six weeks later, though, on the anniversary of Stiles's mother's death -- her _murder_.

Stiles had been a wreck all goddamn day. He and his father had gone to her grave, left her flowers, and it hadn't helped. It just hurt, just made him that much more aware that she was gone. She'd been dead since he was fifteen -- eleven years, eleven goddamn years -- but all time had done was blunt the pain. It was always still there, still a constant ache.

As dusk fell, he heard a thud and a scuffle upstairs, outside -- 

Derek was sitting outside, in his usual place, watching the sunset. Stiles was used to seeing him in the moonlight, black and silver, not like this, bathed golden. He looked over at Stiles, and, for the first time, he was the one who reached up to wave.

Stiles swallowed, waved back.

Derek kept an eye on him, and then beckoned.

He'd never done that before, either.

So Stiles climbed out, sat next to him, watching the sun sink and the stars come out. The moon was low in the sky. 

Eventually, Derek said, "It used to sound like harmony, when we'd howl. The whole pack, everyone's voices together. I miss them."

"I miss her," Stiles gasped, feeling like everything was going to break loose. "I keep waiting like it's going to stop hurting but it never will, will it?"

"No," Derek said. "But grief is not a weakness."

"It feels like it is." He heard his voice shake. "I feel so fucking weak."

"You're not," Derek said. But still, he shifted closer to Stiles. He didn't put his arm _around_ Stiles, precisely; he kept his hand planted on the roof, his arm a sharp, hard line behind Stiles's back. But he let Stiles lean into him a little bit. 

Derek had survived so much, been through everything. He was the strongest person Stiles had ever met. And if he didn't think Stiles was weak...

Stiles didn't sleep at all, or go back inside. His whole body went stiff and achy. Unlike Derek, he _was_ only human, and he couldn't sit without moving for hours on end. But he was still there, awake, when dawn hit their backs, warming the horizon.

"I should make breakfast," Derek said.

"I'll help." He stood and stretched, winced.

"Hot shower," Derek ordered him, nudging him towards the window. He clambered back in and turned around to wait for Derek, but Derek was gone; below him, the front door banged as he came in that way. Stiles shook his had a little, suddenly exhausted, and instead of showering he fell into bed.

He didn't wake for hours, and when he did, a plate of lunch was waiting for him in the fridge.

*

He was still exhausted that night and just wanted to sleep, but he didn't want to miss Derek. Who showed up early again. Not _as_ early, but at a reasonable time of night. Prime time sitcoms were still on TV. 

Stiles paused, then threw open his window, leaned out, and said, "Hey. Peter Pan."

Derek stared at him.

"C'mere." Stiles hated to say things like that, anything that sounded like maybe an order, not a... a hopeful suggestion, but it would be easier for them both than if he climbed out. 

Derek gave him a skeptical look, but walked over.

"I'm tired," Stiles said. "So I'm going to sleep. But you see this?" He pointed up at the window frame, now raised above their heads. "I am going to leave it open. Like Wendy Darling, okay? I never lock the window, so that if you ever want to come in, you can."

Derek stared at him.

He sighed. "I don't know, Derek. I like when you let me fall asleep with you. I just -- I'm still all stiff and sore and I can't sit outside all night. But you can come in. If you want. No pressure, though, of course, I just -- I don't know why you sit out there, but. You don't have to be out there. If you'd rather be in here. Is all."

Derek blinked at him, and he felt himself blush, because he hadn't babbled like that around Derek in years. 

But what Derek said was, "You're still sore?"

"Human." Stiles shrugged. "I did some stretches, but... y'know..."

"Lie down on your stomach," Derek commanded, nodding at the bed.

Now, for a change, Stiles gave _him_ a skeptical look, but he did what Derek said. Because he was Derek.

Derek settled next to him on the bed, kneeling, the mattress dipping under his weight. Stiles held his breath, and Derek reached down and put a hand on his back. He just held it there for a minute, then slid it up to Stiles's shoulder. 

Stiles shuddered. Derek had marked him there once, years ago, to prove to the others that he belonged in the pack even if he was just a human. Derek had probably forgotten about it, but there was still a silver-pink scar where he'd bitten Stiles's shoulder.

Derek squeezed gently, and began to massage, both hands working across Stiles's shoulders and back. Stiles turned his head to the side and tried to say something, but his body felt like it weighed a million pounds. He couldn't stir enough to talk, and had no idea he was so exhausted until he decided it would be okay to close his eyes. Just for a second, then he'd roll over and thank Derek --

He woke to the smell of coffee, with no idea if Derek had stayed in his room or not. 

*

Stiles's work for the lycan movement wasn't _technically_ employment, in that it didn't pay him anything, so he also worked at the library. He was good at it, even if he didn't actually have any qualifications for the job -- he'd dropped out of college near the beginning of his junior year, finally doing what he'd wanted to for ages and joining the Network -- but Danny had concocted a fake diploma and record for him. And anyway, the Beacon Hills library was willing to look the other way for him, even though his bosses pretty clearly suspected he was involved with the lycans. Or maybe because of that. People who weren't sympathetic to the freedom movement didn't tend to stay in Beacon Hills for very long, these days.

He pulled into the driveway after work as dusk was falling, and movement up at the roof attracted his eye. Derek was up there -- not on the flat top of the garage, outside Stiles's room where he usually lurked, but up on the roof proper. His knees were hooked over the peak at the top and he was doing sit ups.

"Show off," Stiles accused, smiling. Derek paused, his head tilting a little bit for a moment, then he went back to what he was doing. Stiles leaned against the side of his Jeep, just watching. It was actually pretty breath-taking. All lycans had that kind of strength, of course, but Derek was... 

Derek was gorgeous.

Every movement he made was precise, graceful, like a dancer. Just watching him made Stiles feel like an awkward teenage klutz again, but he couldn't tear his gaze away. 

Stiles applauded, not at all sarcastic, when Derek stopped, then did some kind of gymnastic backflip and landed upright halfway down the roof. He looked over his shoulder at Stiles with a smirk.

"He sticks the landing! Gold medal goes to Derek Hale, the lycan nation's first," Stiles deadpanned, knowing Derek could hear him from up there. He laughed and headed inside and up to his room, and found Derek waiting on the garage roof outside.

"So were you putting a show on just for me?" Stiles asked, leaning out the window. "Or for the FBI agents who follow you around, or what?"

"I was just working out."

"Uh huh. Well, whatever, I'm just going to be in here working on the notes I was putting together for you. I've got a few hours left before bed, so... feel free to sit out there being creepy, _or_ you could come in and watch TV with my dad or something. Your call. Window's open."

"Thanks," Derek said, but he didn't move to come in.

Stiles shrugged, letting it go. Derek was... well, Derek. Unpredictable, and he'd probably be gone in a day or two anyway. So Stiles got to work, prepping everything Derek and Boyd had asked him to, and when that didn't take as long as he expected, he actually read a book for fun for awhile before turning off his light.

He rolled over halfway through the night and glanced out the window. Derek was gone.

But when he sat up to grab a drink of water from the glass on his desk, the glass was empty. He frowned. He'd definitely filled it before bed, but...

Derek was lying on the floor next to Stiles's bed, eyes shut, head resting on his arms. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever actually seen Derek asleep before.

He stared down at the figure for a long moment. Derek had tossed off his jacket and sneakers, but was still wearing an undershirt and jeans. He looked as tense as ever, which was just... sad. Derek didn't even relax when he was asleep.

Sighing, Stiles grabbed one of his pillows and dropped it on the floor. Or rather, dropped it. Derek's arm snaked out and caught it before it hit the ground.

"I thought you were sleeping."

"Just resting." Derek paused. "Did you throw a pillow at me?"

"I thought you might... you know, want a pillow?"

Derek eyed him warily, then tucked it up under his head. "Thanks."

"My bed's more comfortable than the floor, just so you know," Stiles mumbled into the mattress, and fell back asleep.

*

Erica dropped by the next month, which was a little weird, but mostly nice. She teased Stiles, declared he was downgraded from Batman to Robin status, and he only got so flustered he tripped over his own feet twice. Which was a win, really. 

What was really weird was when she said, "I hear things are finally going somewhere with you and Derek."

He answered, "Huh?"

She pet his cheek condescendingly. "Come on, Robin, it's been all over the movement gossip mill. Our savior, Derek Hale, shacking up with a former slave-owner? It's a scandal."

"It shouldn't be. We -- we aren't -- nothing happened. Between us. Nothing."

She gave him her best _bitch, please_ look, which he was way too familiar with, even almost two years after their breakup. 

"What?" he sighed.

"It's just, Derek doesn't sleep around other people. Not even the pack. It makes him feel vulnerable, and he won't be that, ever. Think about it."

Then she sauntered off, and Stiles... well, he thought about it.

*

Derek dropped off the radar for a few months. Stiles did his best not to worry as he waited for news. There was no real reason for him to worry. It wasn't like this was even a rare occurrence.

Derek had never been elected or anything, but all the lycans unanimously agreed he was their leader -- and that meant for all he was the public face of the lycan freedom movement, the peaceful group of escapees that had gathered in Beacon Hills, he was _also_ the Network's leader, and up to his eyebrows in their covert, illegal operation. Not that anyone outside the lycans and their enemies knew that. For all the groups had both grown out of the initial rebellion Derek had led and Stiles had not-so-accidentally helped, the world now looked at them as two separate entities. Commentators were constantly saying how the Network just mad the freedom movement look bad, made all lycans look like mad dogs. Hell, plenty of them had called on Derek to _condemn_ the Network.

But of course, the FBI knew what political talking heads on TV didn't, or at least the FBI suspected. The Network covered its tracks carefully, never leaving any evidence that Derek was involved. With no proof, all the FBI could do was try to keep Derek under observation -- and Derek was a genius and slipping away from their watchers, his enhanced senses always tipping him off. So they had no proof, and couldn't _do_ anything. So Stiles didn't really need to worry.

Then again, the Argents knew full well that Derek was behind the Network, even if they couldn't prove anything, either. But they didn't care about proof, and if _they_ ever found Derek...

So yeah, Stiles worried. He never asked his Network contacts what they were doing and they never involved him, but he _did_ check in with Scott as often as he could. To make sure Scott and Allison were both okay, of course, and to ask about everyone else. Erica, even now that they were broken up, and Danny and Jackson, and especially Derek.

Not that Scott would tell him much of anything. He just gave Stiles a lopsided smile and said, "He loves when you ask about him. He pretends he doesn't, but he does."

*

Someone in the movement blew up something they weren't supposed to and the FBI arrived. Or rather, _more_ FBI arrived, since Beacon Hills was under constant surveillance anyway. The FBI usually knew about Derek's comings and goings, even if the media didn't always, but when something like this happened, they swarmed.

Stiles knew the drill, since it happened every few years. He handed them all his equipment, sighing about what it would cost, let them cuff him and take him off for questioning. He didn't fight back when they shoved him around, didn't react to the insult when they called him a lycanlover, and answered the few questions he could. Not that he wanted to, but Derek had ordered him to when this happened. Because Stiles _wasn't_ a soldier, wasn't lycan, and it wasn't really his struggle. (Of course, Derek had said the same thing to Danny, and yet when this happened Danny still always reappeared bruised and banged up, like maybe _he'd_ fought back anyway.)

The FBI agents sneered at Stiles, threw him into a cell and kept him cuffed up in the dark and hit him a couple of times. Like any of that was going to intimidate him. He spent his life immersed in Derek's pack, surrounded by surly lycans who had every reason to hate humans. He was kind of hard to intimidate.

But they didn't just let him go this time. He was pretty sure a full day passed, and someone finally brought him a meal, and later, another. It was always the same shitty food, no variation for breakfast or dinner or anything, but he still counted and assumed three meals came his way each day. Which was how he knew three days went by, and then four, and then he lost track.

Sitting in the dark, there wasn't much he could do but think, and no way he could think about anything except what was happening outside his cell. Had they found something on one of his drives? They had his laptop, he knew, but there wasn't anything incriminating on that. But then there were the other drives. Ones encrypted every way Danny knew how, saved in innocent looking safes that would go magnetic and delete everything if they were improperly opened. Just their existence would be enough to hold Stiles for... months? Years? Was there even a cap on how long they could keep him in custody?

He tried not to think about the headlines, the FBI raid on Beacon Hills, the lycan allies getting rounded up and disappeared. He tried not to picture his lycan friends being caught and handed over to the Argents, forced back into collars and tortured --

"Stilinski." A light cut through the blackness of his cell, some agent in a suit shining it in his eyes. "Up."

Stiles swallowed and stood, let the agent lead him out. He blinked at the dim hall light, and was barely used to it when they hit a brighter holding area and -- fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Derek was sitting in a wooden chair, hands chained behind the chair's back. He looked haggard, exhausted, circles under his eyes and completely unshaven. He was pale, breathing hard, looking worse than Stiles had ever seen him since the incident with the wolfsbane bullet, and oh god, oh god, they'd _caught Derek_ , they'd wolfsbaned him, they would kill him --

But there was no collar on him, thank god. That was the only sliver of hope Stiles had as the agent shoved him down into another chair.

"There, Hale. Your proof. Now you talk."

"What?" Stiles asked.

Derek ignored the agent and said, "Stiles. You -- are you alright?"

"What? Yeah. Of course I -- yes, of course. I mean, kind of starved, and confused, and a little banged up, but you know me. I'm tougher than I look. Always have been."

"Yes, you are." Derek heaved a breath and turned to the agent. "Fine. I watch him walk out, and your boss tells me he's safe. No scent blockers, no mufflers. The truth."

The agent narrowed his eyes but swept out, and Stiles gaped at Derek. "What are you --"

"Don't." 

" _Derek_ \--"

"Stiles. Don't." Then, gaze dropping to the floor, Derek said, "You've been gone for nine days."

"That long? _How_? Oh god, my dad must be freaking out, and --"

"Yes. He was. I told him I'd take care of it."

"How? You can't..." He swallowed everything he could even think of. _You can't cooperate with them_ and _you can't turn over evidence or your friends will get caught_ or a million other things. "Derek, you shouldn't be here."

Derek said nothing, because Stiles was right, and they both knew it. Stiles slumped in his chair, hating himself, because Derek... the world _needed_ Derek. He was the symbol, the fuse that lit the fire, the one who mattered. He had too much responsibility to ever turn himself over, even for Stiles. Even if he had a reason to _want_ to do something like that for Stiles.

"You're out," Derek said. "When you leave here, you're done helping us."

"But --"

"That is not up for negotiation. They're coming back; be quiet."

" _But_ \--"

At Derek's glare, he went silent.

Sure enough, several agents in sunglasses appeared. One of them undid Stiles's cuffs and handed him a bin of his personal items -- not his laptop, of course, but his wallet and phone. 

"Listen to me, Hale," one of them said. "We're releasing him. We have nothing on him, anyway. Nothing to hold him with."

"Then can I have my computer back? This is, like, the fourth one you've seized. Do you really want to see my failed attempts at writing novels this badly?" Stiles muttered. "The next one will be called _The Asshole FBI Agent_. It'll be a romance novel about an innocent researcher who gets kidnapped by a rogue agent and --"

"Stiles." Derek sounded a little pained. "Stop antagonizing them so they can let you go."

Stiles glared at the agents. "It will not be a flattering portrayal. I'm just saying."

Still, one of them opened the door. He was almost out when he heard Derek call after him: "Leave the window open."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some references to Kate having tortured Derek when he was younger, among other fairly unpleasant things. Nothing is particularly graphic, but yeah.

Stiles got home to find Boyd sitting with his father. His father, who immediately wrapped him in a crushing hug, obviously trying not to cry. Stiles hugged back just as fiercely, so exhausted and just feeling dirty and gross. He hadn't showered, he was starving, and he was so, so worried. The FBI had Derek in custody, and how the hell was the pack going to cope without him? The government would never let him go willingly. The pack was going to have to find him, break him out, and hope they weren't too late. Fuck, if they collared him...

Stiles could still remember Derek with a collar, so much younger: his face contorted with pain when he couldn't change on the full moon, his hand scrabbling at his neck like he was being choked. His fingers wrapped around the moonstone and metal, pulling and tearing for all he was worth, but still not strong enough to break it. How Derek had collapsed back against the wall in defeat, hands clenched into useless fists. He'd refused to look up and meet Stiles's eyes, humiliated that Stiles had seen him even _try_ when it was so impossible.

That had been so long ago, now. Stiles shuddered at the memory, not sure that Derek would survive it this time if they collared him. Scratch that -- sure Derek wouldn't _want_ to survive it this time. He'd rather die than live as a slave to the Argents.

"Stiles," Boyd said softly. "Go clean up, okay? We have to talk."

Stiles nodded. Boyd was Derek's second in command in the freedom movement, always calm and steady, and fiercely loyal to Derek and the pack. He had to have a plan by now, had to know something. He would never, ever let them take Derek away.

He shaved, glad for a change that he wasn't one of those guys who could sprout a beard overnight. Then he showered, and for all he wanted to take his time, the thought of Derek in custody was too much. He scrubbed hard, his skin going red and raw, filth washing down the drain, and then scrambled into a clean set of clothes and back downstairs. Boyd had made himself at home in the kitchen, cooking dinner -- a weird habit Stiles kind of suspected he'd picked up from Derek -- and Stiles sat.

"What happened?" Stiles demanded. "I only saw Derek for a split second, but --"

"One of Isaac's went rogue," Boyd said bluntly. Stiles winced. Where Boyd was Derek's second in command in the movement, Isaac was his second in the Network; the one who helped him run their less-than-legal operations. The raids, the bombings. Stiles almost never saw him, and was just as glad, because the guy kind of freaked him out. "He was scrambling to do damage control but we didn't have enough warning. There was enough evidence to link Derek, but they couldn't _find_ him. So they nabbed you."

"Me," Stiles echoed.

"Yeah," Boyd said. "Because it's kind of... common knowledge, about you and Derek."

"There's nothing to _be_ common --"

"Stiles," Boyd sighed. "You know there is. I don't know what you two are. Derek's not good with feelings, maybe he's never told you that he -- but you _know_. And anyway, the _FBI_ knows. Or at least, they know that he comes here to see you. And that it isn't just business."

Stiles swallowed.

"It worked," Boyd said. "They made it very clear they wanted a trade. I tried to talk him out of it -- even Isaac offered to turn himself in instead."

"Shit," Stiles breathed. Derek was their leader, yes. But the fairly well kept secret was that Isaac was higher on the most wanted list, because he _was_ the one who carried out the bombings, the one the FBI could prove was behind it all.

"Derek wouldn't let him," Boyd said.

Of course not. Derek protected his pack however he could; he'd never, ever let the FBI get their hands on Isaac.

"We think he has some kind of plan, but he didn't share it," Boyd continued. "But if we have to go after him, we will."

"Yes," Stiles said. "Just tell me what you need me to --"

"No. You're out," Boyd said. "That's directly from Derek."

"But --"

"Stiles," his father said softly. "You know he's right. If they're using you to blackmail him, it's too dangerous for you both."

Stiles leaned back in his chair, dropping his fork on the table. "I can help, though. I can --"

"No," Boyd said. "And there's more. We're... we're sending you somewhere safe. That's _my_ call. Derek's not here, I'm in charge, and it's what needs to be done. Simple as that."

"What do you mean, sending me?" Stiles frowned, and looked over at his father.

"Think... witness relocation," Boyd said. "I've been pulling strings. We'll get an identity set up for you, a job, and an apartment. You'll be out of the way, and safe." He paused. "And I'm not telling Derek where you are. Because you _are_ the only one they can blackmail him with. The rest of us, he'd -- he'd mourn. But you... As long as you two have contact, you're his Achilles heel. It's safer for you both."

"But what about, about everyone here? My friends? My whole _life_?" Stiles sputtered. "And my dad, what about him?"

His dad looked away, and Boyd looked down. "Your dad can go with you, if he wants."

"And if he doesn't want?"

"Then... same as everyone else here, Stiles. He doesn't get to know where you are, or to contact you. No one does. I know it's shitty, but... but it's the way it has to be."

"Of course I'm going with him," his dad said, before he could argue.

Boyd nodded. "Good. We'll set it up so your records all say you've taken an early retirement, you'll receive a stipend. Start packing, both of you. You've got 24 hours to say your goodbyes."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, to refuse, to say something. 

But Boyd was right. They were probably forcing an Argent collar onto Derek right now, and god only knew what they'd do to him then. And they'd only gotten to him because of Stiles. The pack was going to find him, they had to, but who was to say the FBI or the Argents wouldn't try again? Derek couldn't afford to have such an obvious weakness. And Stiles would never, ever put Derek in danger willingly. 

He met Boyd's gaze, and he nodded.

*

Scott and Allison both lived with Scott's mom -- Scott had been missing for six years after the Argents took him away, back when he was sixteen, and his mom was still grateful to have him back. Allison had come along with him, since joining the pack had meant turning her back on her family forever. His mom had been more than happy to take her in, too. Not just because Scott loved her, but because if it wasn't for her, Scott would probably still be a slave somewhere.

At least this time, Stiles got to say goodbye, he told himself. He was disappearing, he wouldn't see them again for god only knew how long, but he wasn't being kidnapped and spirited off into the night like Scott had.

"You be good," he said, as Scott wrapped him in a crushing hug. "Take care of Allison and your mom, okay?"

"Of course. And you take care of your dad. And... and you know, if you ever need us, if you ever get into anything you can't handle... you know we'll come for you. Screw witness protection. You're one of us."

Stiles barely managed a nod. But he already knew he wouldn't call. If disappearing was what would keep Derek safe, then he was going to disappear. No matter how much it hurt.

*

They moved them to Chicago, of all places. A human member of the old lycan underground helped them move in and get set up, handed them all of their new identity information: drivers licenses, social security cards, birth certificates, tax forms going back almost a decade. All under assumed names -- apparently Stiles Stilinski was vanishing from the face of the planet, leaving someone named Gene Smith behind in his wake.

"This is all... impressively thorough," he mused, sticking all the documents into a drawer.

Their contact shrugged. "That's what we used to do, you know? Before Derek... before things changed."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed vaguely. That was how Danny's family had gotten involved, years and years ago -- when they were still kids, before he'd even considered that Scott could be lycan, before his mother's death, ages before Derek had come into his life. The Mahealanis and other families like them helped teenagers escape the Argents when they could. It was a hard thing to do -- most lycans changed for the first time in their mid-teens, and almost none of them knew what was happening beforehand. _If_ they figured it out, and _if_ they managed to contact the underground, families like the Mahealanis would get them set up with new identities, would teach them how to cover their tracks and keep what they were a secret. But few lycans were so lucky, and once the Argents got a lycan collared, there was nothing the underground could do. There was no hope at all. Or rather, there hadn't been until Derek had managed to strike back. 

But now Derek was gone. 

*

Life in Chicago was... different. Not terrible, but the city was cold. And crowded. He liked his job -- he worked in the reference section of a university library -- and the apartment was fine. But it was hard, leaving behind everything he'd ever known, all of his friends, everything he'd ever cared about. He tried to see it as a fresh start, but how was it supposed to feel fresh when he was just scanning the headlines every day and setting up google search alerts, looking for anything about the lycan movement? For that matter, how was it supposed to be a fresh start when the only thing he ever thought about was Derek, and when someone was going to contact him to say that they'd rescued him?

But days crawled by, and then weeks, and no one got in touch. Which meant he had nothing but mainstream news and internet rumors to go on, and they only covered things like the bombings, and the commentary was painful. Like, yes, okay, Stiles admitted it was horrific. Isaac's people only struck Argent facilities, and only when they were at their lowest occupancy, but there were always casualties. 

Of course, no one in the media ever pointed out that Isaac and his group went out of their way to keep the casualty count as low as possible. Or that the Argents used those facilities to turn alphas into vegetables, channeling their minds and their willpower into the control collars -- and that most alphas never recovered. And they definitely never mentioned that lycan prisoners were routinely tortured and broken in those facilities.

When three were taken out in a single month, Stiles knew it _had_ to be part of the search for Derek. Which meant the Network hadn't found him yet, and they thought he'd been handed over to the Argents.

The thought of Derek in one of those facilities made Stiles sick to his stomach.

The thought that Derek was there because of _him_ , had turned himself in because of _him_ , gave him the first panic attack he'd had in years.

But all he could do was try to breathe, make sure he kept his window unlocked like Derek had asked him to, and wait and hope to get a message soon. But months crawled by, spring descended on the city, and no message came.

*

At least the media covered the march. Stiles felt a pang when he saw the plans in the news, since he'd have been the one organizing it, not too many months ago. But it was still pretty awesome just to see on the news. The dark Daehler filters made it hard to see, but still showed enough: a thousand lycans in DC, the largest public gathering of lycans ever. He picked out Boyd, Scott, and Erica easily at the front, striding confidently, ignoring everyone who lined the streets -- the protesters, the people shouting threats. The Argents, restrained by a line of secret service agents. 

"Derek should be with them," Stiles said, eyes glued to the news coverage.

"I'm sure he's... well, he's a fugitive," his father said. "It's not like he can just show up for something like this."

Stiles nodded, trying to convince himself his father was right. If the pack had broken Derek out of government custody, then yeah, that made sense. But if that had happened, why hadn't anyone contacted him to say so? Even if they weren't going to let him go home, get back to his real life, someone should have told him something. Danny could send an encrypted, anonymous, untraceable email in his sleep. There was no reason for them not to let him know.

Unless they hadn't found Derek. Which meant that either the government still had him, or the Argents did. Or he was dead.

It didn't help any that the media noticed he was missing, too. He was the one who'd brought the pack together to strike back at the Argents. He'd set up the alpha rest home in Beacon Hills and planted the pack there to protect the alphas. That had attracted plenty of attention, and the army had surrounded them all for weeks, poised to strike at any moment.

Maybe they would have, if not for the videos. The videos that had turned the movement into a sympathetic cause and had simultaneously made Derek famous and made him miserable.

It was all security camera footage, brightened and restored to make it clear despite the Daehler filters. Lydia, of all people, had gotten access to all of the Argents' old security footage -- even Allison would never have been able to do that. Her family would never trust her again after she'd run off with Scott, no matter how much they wanted her back in the fold. But Lydia was the lycans' secret weapon. Her mother was a senator, a huge supporter of the Argent organization, and had all kinds of political connections. Back when Lydia and Danny had been trying desperately to smuggle Jackson out of town before anyone found out he was lycan, she'd decided that the underground needed an insider and had set about insinuating herself into the anti-lycan activist groups. She'd played the role of a brainless socialite and had dated insiders, and eventually she'd gotten involved herself. She knew all the important people, and she figured out _everything_.

The Argents knew their supporters had a leak somewhere. But who'd ever suspect an airhead like Lydia Martin, who was only there because her mother might make a presidential bid someday?

However she'd done it, Lydia had managed to find plenty of damning footage of the way lycans were really treated by the Argent operation -- and no one could ignore it or pretend it wasn't really the Argents at fault, because it was all footage of Kate. Specifically, of Kate torturing teenage Derek, tormenting him for fun. And it didn't matter that he was lycan: when people saw it, what they saw was a powerless _child_ , a teenager who should have been trying out for a sports team or eating pizza with friends, instead being systematically broken. The whole nation had been horrified, but parents, especially -- and _most_ especially parents whose children had turned out to be lycan and had vanished into the Argent system.

Everyone had always trusted that the Argent way was the best way, the only way, to deal with the lycan problem; that they kept lycans under control, and it was more merciful than killing them outright. It was the lie that had gotten the Argent Act passed three generations ago, when the world at large first found out about lycans. But with footage of teenagers being tortured proving what really happened, that trust was shattered, and everyone felt betrayed. 

It had been enough to get the military to stand down around Beacon Hills, and for the world to agree that the lycans had reasons for their rebellion. The government had even gone so far as to agree to let the escaped lycans remain free, when all previous policy had been to kill them on sight or to return them to the Argents. It wasn't exactly a pardon, but it was enough to turn Beacon Hills into the lycan enclave it became. And it definitely wasn't a coincidence that in the years since that footage had gone public, the number of lycans the Argents brought into the system had dropped sharply. Whether it was parents finding ways to hide their children, or the Argents looking the other way with the hopes of avoiding more public outcry and scrutiny, it had been a real victory for the lycans. 

There had been plenty of other footage, too: other torturers, other lycans. But none of it had the same impact. For one thing, Kate was part of the core Argent family, not just one of their flunky employees; and Derek was the only lycan they'd been able to identify who'd survived. So when the tapes leaked, not only had Beacon Hills gotten its stay of execution, Derek was the one the media gravitated towards. The fact that he'd grown up to look like a movie star hadn't hurt, and that other lycans followed him with blind loyalty cemented it. Never mind that Derek hated the tapes. They were like an exposed nerve for him, bringing up memories he never wanted to think about again, showing his weaknesses and vulnerabilities to the whole world. They made him an object of pity, and he hated anything that made him seem weak.

Stiles had only ever made it through a few minutes of footage, staring in horror as teenaged Derek begged for mercy Kate would never give him. It was more than enough, and Derek asked him not to watch the rest, so he didn't. And they never talked about it. 

But now, with major lycan activism in DC, Derek was nowhere to be found. And how could Stiles not think about it, where he was and what might be happening to him, when it was all the news wanted to talk about?

He couldn't help himself. Lying in the dark, he remembered Derek shielding him with his body as they'd been shot at; Derek mumbling about his pack to Mrs. McCall while she treated him at the hospital, when he'd been barely conscious and not healing. Derek's roar the moment he was freed and the tense nod when he'd let them put the collar back on; his fierce eyes as he'd testified about saving Stiles's life, about the psychopaths who'd tried to murder them both, who _had_ murdered Stiles's mother. 

But most of all, Stiles remembered Derek sitting outside his window, watching the sky. 

Chicago was a big city. Dangerous, compared to Beacon Hills. But even so, Stiles checked his window every night, making sure it wasn't latched. It was stupid, pointless. Even if Derek was out there somewhere -- which seemed less and less likely -- Derek didn't know where he was. That was the whole point of moving and taking an assumed name. But it was the last thing Derek had ever asked him to do. So even though Stiles didn't wait up hoping to see him, he also didn't lock the window.

*

Six months passed. Then a year.

Derek was probably dead. That was what Stiles told himself. No one had the heart to tell him, or maybe it wasn't confirmed. Or, even more likely, the whole pack blamed him and just didn't want to talk to him. God knew he blamed himself, carried around the heavy feeling all the time. Derek had looked like shit in the few minutes Stiles had seen him -- and Stiles was probably the last person from the movement who'd _ever_ seen him. 

Boyd stepped up as the movement's leader easily, and the pack followed him. That was good, that there was no fighting. Scott and Allison finally got married -- well, they had a ceremony, anyway, since the law only barely allowed escaped lycans their lives and definitely hadn't given any okay for interspecies marriage -- but either way, it made the news. Stiles's heart broke that he wasn't there.

A few weeks later, Erica got busted doing something unspecified, and Stiles winced at the coverage of her being arrested; days after that, the facility where she was held went up in flames, and from then on, she was right there with Isaac on the most wanted list.

There was never any sign of Derek, and Stiles tried to resign himself to never knowing what had happened to him.

*

The news broke almost two years after Stiles moved: the Argents had created what they called the Mark Two collar, ten times stronger than the older model. It didn't just force the lycan to obey, it stripped the lycan of any free will at all. They were like robots, or -- or animals. Mindlessly obedient, and nothing else.

They showed it off in action on the news, on some poor, collared teenager. Stiles's heart broke at the blank look in the kid's eyes, the way he jumped, stood on one foot. All kinds of silly, stupid stuff. 

The vote to amend the Argent Act and legalize the collars was a damn close one, with the lycan activists making a hell of a lot of noise, drumming up more sympathy than they'd ever garnered before. But it passed. By one vote, it passed.

Boyd gave a statement, a moving, beautiful speech about lycan rights. That night, Isaac released a video, threatening retribution. Stiles knew there really was no split among the lycans at all, that Isaac's threats were the flip side of the coin that also held Boyd's peaceful protests. It was exactly the same good cop/bad cop roles they'd played under Derek, still expertly done, even now that Derek was gone for good.

*

Sometimes, living in a city made Stiles feel so choked and alone, even though there were thousands of other people packed into close quarters. He didn't know any of them, they weren't the friends -- the _pack_ \-- he'd devoted his life to. His father tried to encourage him to go out more, to meet people, but the truth was he'd rather just stay in. But he didn't want his father to worry about him, so he decided urban gardening would make a great hobby. He started planting potted vegetables on their fire escape, safety regulations be damned, and he felt a little bit better when he was surrounded by greenery. Even if it was just a few tiny splashes of color.

*

Isaac's lycans got more aggressive after the new collars, just like he'd threatened. But now they were fighting against other lycans, collared and ordered to protect the facilities, even if it killed them. Every battle had casualties, and they weren't all wins.

Stiles didn't have access to a list of names of who'd been captured or killed, but it was national news when the Argents got Isaac. He survived -- barely -- but was captured, and collared. The Argents leaked photos of Isaac with one of the Mark Twos, dead-eyed and standing up straight, with none of his habitual slouch. Stiles shuddered when he saw it -- as far as anyone could tell, Mark Two collars stripped lycans of their entire mind. Maybe it was mercy that Isaac probably didn't even know his own name or have any idea what was happening. But that was the only kind of mercy the Argents would have. And there was no way, none, that the Argents hadn't tried to get information out of him first. Isaac would have known just about everything about the Network, but he wouldn't have given it up easily. 

Whatever had happened, it only took three weeks before there was more news, and this time it wasn't clear _who_ leaked it. Whether it was the Argents or the lycans themselves, it spelled out that Isaac was dead, an arrow to his eye. That was all anyone could find out, but Stiles knew the Network well enough to know it had to be Allison's doing. Maybe an accident, a rescue gone wrong, or maybe it was a mercy killing. 

From what Stiles could tell, Erica took over for Isaac after that, which broke his heart a little. His father hugged him when they saw the news, and they mourned together silently. For Isaac, who'd never had any real peace and was now definitely gone; for Erica, who Stiles still loved a little and who'd never come back now; and for Derek.

Derek, who'd died to rescue him.

*

Three years out and finally used to answering to Gene, Stiles let his hand hesitate on the lock on his window one night. He snapped it shut.

Then, five minutes later, he got up and opened it again.

*

It was somewhere around then that one of the sympathetic senators introduced a bill that would require much closer scrutiny of lycan owners, to protect lycans from mistreatment. Boyd organized another march, for free lycans and their allies this time. Stiles bought the plane ticket before even stopping to think, but he got a text message from a number he'd never seen before: _don't even think about it._

So that was a waste of money. He wanted to go anyway, but he thought about Derek trading himself in and shuddered. He wouldn't risk getting anyone else hurt or in trouble. 

But he couldn't help himself entirely; he saved the phone number and poked around a little. It was a Beacon Hills number, of course. He didn't know whose, Danny had probably made sure of that, but it meant that they were still keeping an eye on him. They still didn't want him to come home.

Stiles felt a rush of homesickness, and grief, and shut his computer, dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried not to cry. He failed, and instead he curled up in bed, telling himself over and over again that grief was not a weakness.

*

The bill passed. Barely. The day it went into law, Boyd's people sprang into action. It was nice, watching them use legal means for a change, as violations were called in all over the country. The best part... well, there were a lot of best parts. Lycans couldn't be starved; physical punishment was restricted; sexual abuse was outlawed. Of course, lycans with Mark Two collars weren't capable of complaining, and most of the rest weren't exactly able to get to the police, either. But that was where Boyd's people came in. The movement had people ready to go, quickly lodging complaints on abused lycans' behalves, and for the first time, the news was more good than bad.

It was summer. Stiles grabbed a can of beer and sat out on the fire escape in the midst of his vegetables, drinking slowly and enjoying the breeze. Being surrounded by so many buildings still felt foreign. From his perch, he could make out people in other apartments, having dinner or watching TV or whatever else. He sighed and shut his eyes.

"You'd like the news this week, Derek," he mumbled aloud. "I wish you were here to see it."

*

The internet lit up with the headlines before the mainstream media cared at all: Danny Mahealani, long rumored to be one of the few humans allowed into the Beacon Hills Pack inner circle, was in FBI custody. He was accused of helping Erica carry out acts of terrorism, and he was probably going down, very, very publicly.

Stiles stared at the news, at the footage of Danny's perp walk, hands cuffed behind his back and his expression defiant, though his gaze kept cutting to somewhere off camera, checking something. Jackson wasn't in the footage anywhere, but Stiles knew the two of them too well. If Danny was watching anyone off camera, it had to be Jackson. 

He tried to take stock of what this would mean. Danny was one of the few people in the pack who knew absolutely everything about both the official movement and the Network. He knew the ciphers they used to communicate, had encrypted all of their most closely guarded secrets. Danny not only knew how to reach every single underground cell, he was also the _only_ person who had contact with Lydia. Stiles didn't know how they managed it, if they had failsafes in place, if she'd have some other way to leak information to the Network -- or, _fuck_ , if the FBI managed to decrypt any of Danny's files, they might find out her identity. 

It was absolutely fucking maddening that he couldn't call anyone and find out what was going on. He still had that number from when he'd wanted to go to the march, but he didn't dare try it. He wouldn't risk compromising the identity they'd given him, wouldn't risk doing anything that might get his friends in trouble, but he itched to know. To be with them like he used to, to be able to help any way he could. Hell, he even wished he was there to comfort Jackson, who he imagined lurking just outside of whatever prison they had Danny at, scenting the air and howling any time Danny smelled like fear.

But no news broke about Lydia or the anti-lycan leak, thank god, and with so much media attention on Danny, nothing _too_ bad could happen to him. Not even the Argents could arrange an accident under that much scrutiny.

The only real silver lining was that, unlike most of the rest of the Beacon Hills activists, Danny was human -- and that meant he was a citizen. He had rights and he'd get a trial. Which he did: it took six months to get started, and it dragged on for another eight. Stiles lived and died with the news, trying not to imagine himself in Danny's place. It could have been him, so easily, if they hadn't thrown him out of Beacon Hills.

Maybe they should have sent Danny packing, too, when they had the chance. 

But then again, Danny wasn't the one who'd gotten Derek killed.

*

Danny ended up with a hung jury and a mistrial. He walked free, but didn't head back to Beacon Hills. He and his family relocated to a small town somewhere in upstate New York. Jackson went with them. Stiles smiled a little at that.

*

Gerard Argent keeled over dead five years into Stiles's exile. Chris and Victoria took over from him, and their first order of business was deactivating the Mark Twos. It was a gesture of goodwill, they said.

Stiles didn't trust it. It was too weird. And there were rumors, too. Gerard was an old man; allegedly, he'd died in his sleep, of natural causes. But half the internet was convinced he'd been mauled by a lycan. That couldn't be true, though, because if it was, there was no way his successors would have done _anything_ for goodwill with the lycan movement. So Stiles dismissed it out of hand.

Except that one of the internet crazies also happened to own a store in the Argents' hometown, and posted a screenshot from the security footage that showed a blurry figure in a leather jacket. That was all it was: a blur, facing away from the camera, so there wasn't even a telling lens flare to prove or disprove that it was a lycan. But the crazy was convinced it was Derek Hale.

Stiles spent more hours than he'd care to admit staring at the screencap. It was someone about the right height and build. But hundreds of thousands of people had dark hair and leather jackets. It was just impossible to tell, and Derek was dead. After five years missing, Derek _had_ to be dead. 

But still, Stiles checked his window at night, making sure it wasn't locked. Just in case.

*

When news commentators started claiming that the nation had turned in support of lycan freedom, that the Argents would be open to negotiating it, Stiles was skeptical. But it was a presidential election year, and it was going to be a campaign issue. For the first time, a candidate actually said he favored lycan freedom. Of course, his opponent lashed out, claiming that was the same as supporting the lunatic fringe, the lycan terrorists.

The wind went out of the opponent's sails when Erica released a video stating that the day her lycan brethren and sistren were free, she would willingly hand herself over for justice.

Stiles donated to the freedom candidate's campaign. It was the most active he'd been in the movement in years.

*

The election went well, but lycan rights weren't as important to anyone as arguing over taxes. Boyd preached patience, and Erica's group eased up, attacks growing more and more rare.

Scott and Allison had a baby, which Stiles only knew from following the lycan gossip online. It was way too early to even guess if she would take after Scott, but she would definitely carry the genes. The pictures of Scott with a tiny little thing in his arms made Stiles melt, and he'd have given anything to be there to hold her once or twice.

*

Progressives made a remarkable sweep of the midterm elections, so it wasn't a shock when the Freedom Bill was introduced, but it was still almost unbelievable. Especially because it was from some freshman senator who wasn't even one of the ones Boyd had been courting. When asked about it, he just said it was the right thing to do.

Of course, it wasn't that easy. Everyone was terrified of what freed lycans would do to their former owners; owners wanted compensation if they were going to give up their property; there was the question of rights and whether freedom meant they'd extend to lycans now.

The bill was defeated in its first vote. Stiles's heart sank, even though Boyd gave a beautiful speech about how the fact that it had come up to a vote in the first place was a sign of amazing progress. 

"I dunno," Stiles said to no one on the fire escape, opening a beer. "Maybe we are closer than ever. It all just feels so far away now."

*

The library where Stiles worked was part of a university, so having professors in and out was an absolutely normal happening. It was easy to pick them out from even the older grad students, something about the way they carried themselves, but Stiles rarely bothered to take notice of them. Until one walked up to his desk and cleared his throat, and there was -- there was just something about him, somewhere in his eyebrows, that reminded Stiles of Derek. Just a tiny bit, but it hit Stiles in the gut, made his heartbeat speed up a little, in a way he hadn't felt in a long, long time. 

"Um," Stiles said. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe? It's my first semester teaching here. I need to put some books on reserve for my class..."

"Oh, uh." He pointed over at the main circulation desk. "They'll have forms for you over there at circ. I'm reference. Different department."

"Oh. Thanks." The professor paused. "So... are you a grad student? Or...?"

"Or," Stiles said, then, remembering the cover story he'd been handed years ago, he joked, "Started a master's years ago, ended up working here, and kind of stuck around way after I ditched the program. Sooner or later someone will figure that out and fire me. But until then..."

The professor chuckled. "Well. I won't tell your secret."

It wasn't until twenty minutes later that Stiles realized they'd been flirting a little. Not because he didn't know how to flirt, but because it had been such a long goddamn time since he'd bothered.

He mentioned it to his father that night, and his father smiled. "Good. Next time you see him, you should ask him out."

"Ask him -- Dad, I don't even know his name, or -- anyway, it was nothing."

"No, it wasn't." The humor dropped out of his father's tone, and it went soft and sad, which made Stiles want to die a little bit. "Son, it's been... it's been years since we moved here. I worry about you. I know you're lonely --"

"Of course I am, all of my friends are half a country away and in constant danger and they won't even talk to me --"

"And you've barely made any _here_ , where you live _now_ ," his father interrupted. "It's been years. And this is our life. I know it's not... it's not exciting, like it used to be, and I know it's not what you pictured, but... I know the pack wants you to be happy, to have friends, and -- more."

"More," Stiles repeated skeptically. 

"I'm just saying, there's nothing wrong with flirting with a cute professor. Just... just think about it."

"Yeah," Stiles said. And he knew his father was right, that after eight years it really was time to move on. _Past _time. But somehow Chicago still didn't feel like home, and even though Stiles resolved to try, if only so his father wouldn't talk to him in that worried tone anymore, he knew deep down inside that it never would.__

__*_ _

__Professor Eyebrows' name turned out to be Ben Alvarez. He dropped by the reference desk a few times -- enough for Stiles to work out that it wasn't a coincidence, and that even if his own flirting had been accidental, Ben's definitely wasn't. That was enough to make Stiles curious, so he checked around to find out what Ben taught and discovered it was all sociology with a historical bent. Which included one class about the family as a social unit and how it had developed historically, and he'd actually written the textbook for it. Stiles noticed _that because the book had a short section on lycan packs in relation to family dynamics, which of course he had to read as soon as he found out about it. It was interesting stuff, though a lot of it was just inferred, since the world hadn't known about lycans for very long before the Argent Act had passed and the Argents had started wiping packs out.__ _

___"It's... well, kind of a passion of mine," Ben explained, when Stiles asked him about it, the next time Ben found an excuse to stop at the reference desk. "I mean, the family thing -- I want kids someday, you know, and that'll definitely be considered 'alternative,' which is ridiculous, but I started thinking about what family really means..."_ _ _

___"And the lycan pack thing?"_ _ _

___Ben shrugged. "That's a whole other passion. The lycanthropy thing... there's been so little research done, no real interviews conducted, and I just don't believe everything the Argents claim. But finding independent sources of information on lycans is so difficult --"_ _ _

___"Do you want to get dinner sometime?" Stiles blurted._ _ _

___Ben blinked at him. "Yeah. I'd like that."_ _ _

___*_ _ _

___The thing was, as much as Stiles liked Ben -- and he really did -- he realized after a few months that he just couldn't do it. Maybe his father was right, and this was his life now; but at the same time, he always felt like he was lying when he told Ben anything at all about himself. Especially when Ben mentioned his interest in lycans, because there were so many things Stiles Stilinski knew, could have told him, but that Gene Smith absolutely couldn't._ _ _

___Besides, it was too weird to bring Ben home to the apartment he shared with his _father_. He was old enough that there was no way it was endearing that they had to worry about not waking up his dad when they screwed around together, even though Ben thought it was sweet that he and his dad were close enough to still live together. But it was equally weird to go to Ben's place, where they had privacy, but... but Stiles just didn't like being away from home overnight. He didn't have a lot of rituals anymore, but checking the window every night and every morning was ingrained so deeply that habit didn't come close to describing it._ _ _

___It wasn't like he thought anything would come of it. Derek was dead. But still, it felt like paying his respects._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___The Freedom Bill came up again two years later, right at the beginning of the president's second term, and maybe the stars aligned or something. It just squeaked by in the house, and then in the senate, and then the president actually signed it._ _ _

___The bill wasn't perfect. It didn't grant full rights to lycans, or any kind of reparations. But the Argents didn't fight it, and even though some lycan slave-owners challenged it, within a year the challenges were struck down by the court, and it finally went into effect._ _ _

___There were actual parties in most cities that night, lycans and their supporters celebrating. Ben actually texted Stiles for the first time in ages, inviting him to one, but Stiles had to tell him no thanks. For practical reasons, since any lycans would be able to smell the mark that designated him as a pack member and he really couldn't explain that to Ben, but also because the whole thing was so big, overwhelming, enormous, but it also made him feel more alone than he had in years._ _ _

___He grabbed a beer and climbed out onto the fire escape, while his dad stayed glued to the news inside. He could still hear it, though, and shut his eyes tight when he heard Scott's voice, of all people's, talking about how excited and proud he was, how he couldn't wait to meet his newly-freed lycan brothers and sisters and welcome them into the pack._ _ _

___Stiles should have been there with them, partying and celebrating about winning at last. But instead here he was, alone, and all he could think about was the other person who should have been enjoying the night. He stared up at the sky, raised his beer in a half-salute, and said aloud, "You'd be so proud of your pack right now, Derek. So proud."_ _ _

___*_ _ _

___Erica turned herself in as she'd promised, years ago. And Boyd went on a speaking tour. It was just a cover, Stiles realized. Boyd was actually meeting with some of Erica's cells, and with dozens of lycans who'd been recently freed, who had no idea where to go or what to do._ _ _

___When Boyd came to Chicago, Stiles went to see him speak. He looked older, wiser, and kinder than the last time Stiles had seen him -- and he picked out Stiles in the crowd easily, his gaze fixing on him. Stiles was actually taken aback a little bit by how intense it was, until he remembered: _Derek_ was the one who had marked him, decades ago, and it still carried Derek's scent. Of course Boyd would notice that immediately;_ _ _

___For a moment, the same intense guilt Stiles had felt in those first few years flared up -- it must have been horrible for Boyd, more painful than Stiles could even imagine, for him to suddenly smell Derek in a crowd and have to realize that no, it was only Stiles. The human Derek had cared about enough to trade his life for._ _ _

___One of the lycans who watched Boyd's back pulled Stiles aside after the speech and invited him back to their hotel for a meal. Boyd's crew was young, no one Stiles knew, but they all stared at him with a weird amount of awe._ _ _

___"We're starting a program," Boyd told him. "Opening some halfway houses for lycans who need somewhere to stay, and we need people to work with them, to help them... adjust. Get used to being around humans. It won't be easy; a lot of them are aggressive and angry and, well..."_ _ _

___"Yeah," Stiles said. "But you know I want to help, right?"_ _ _

___"I was counting on it."_ _ _

___They ate in quiet for awhile. Then, finally, Stiles asked, "Did we ever find out what happened to...?"_ _ _

___"Are you sure you want to know?"_ _ _

___Stiles nodded, heart thudding in his chest._ _ _

___"He got loose, himself. Or they let him go," Boyd said. "Six months after you relocated."_ _ _

___"You mean he -- he was alive?" Stiles stared. If Derek hadn't been killed, then what the hell had happened to him? Why hadn't anyone let him know?_ _ _

___"He _was_ alive," Boyd repeated, and Stiles didn't like the emphasis he put on _was_. "But he agreed with me that you were... he didn't want you in danger, either. He thought if we never contacted you, that you'd give up, move on. I told him you wouldn't, but he held me to it. And anyway, once he got in touch with us, let us know he was alive, he never really came back to the pack. He said he was too divisive, that we'd never be taken seriously or treated fairly if he was the public face. So he left it to me and Isaac."_ _ _

___One of the younger wolves gasped, as if Stiles was some outsider who hadn't been involved with the pack back then. Who hadn't been involved since before Boyd _or_ Isaac. _ _ _

___"He sort of... struck out on his own," Boyd said. "He didn't even come back to see Laura. We never knew when he'd send word, or what he was doing. Sometimes he'd work with Isaac's crew, until... he was the one who told us to go through with it. With Isaac."_ _ _

___Stiles looked down._ _ _

___"We didn't always know where he was, or what he was doing. On his own, he moved silently, he could even slip away from _us_. The FBI couldn't even hope to keep up with him. But he never stopped working."_ _ _

___"Gerard Argent?" Stiles guessed._ _ _

___Boyd nodded._ _ _

___"But -- but they deactivated the collars right after that," Stiles remembered. "If Derek was the one who killed him..."_ _ _

___"We have no idea," Boyd said. "Allison even tried to contact her parents, find out why that decision was made, but they wouldn't give her anything."_ _ _

___"And nothing from..." He glanced at the youngsters in the room. Lydia's identity was a well-guarded secret, even among the pack, unless something had changed. "From the leak?"_ _ _

___"Not even the leak found out."_ _ _

___"Damn," Stiles murmured. Because there was no way the Argents would have deactivated the Mark Twos out of the goodness of their hearts. Stiles didn't think there was any goodness _in_ their hearts, honestly._ _ _

___Boyd continued his narrative: "We know Derek was also behind the first incarnation of the Bill. He did so much behind the scenes, never even consulting _me_. But..."_ _ _

___He trailed off, and Stiles knew it was bad. "What happened?"_ _ _

___Boyd shook his head. "We don't know. After the Bill was defeated, he... he went with Erica on one of her raids, and he didn't come back. No one has seen him since, _no one_. And you know if the Argents had him, they'd have trumpeted the news, cut him in half in public. The FBI... we haven't had any indication. I've been trying to find anything I can, but there's nothing, Stiles. We think he's dead. We have no confirmation of that, but... he would have sent word."_ _ _

___Stiles snorted. "That's what I always thought, too. But instead he was running around for, what, ten years? Ten years, and no one called to say, ‘Hey, Stiles, Derek's alive.'"_ _ _

___Boyd didn't meet his eyes. "It was what he wanted. It kept you safe."_ _ _

___"Yeah." Stiles stood up. "You know, I'm not hungry after all. Just... just send me the details of that program, okay, whatever you need. I'm gonna go."_ _ _

___Boyd nodded. "I'll be in touch."_ _ _

___The younger lycans didn't even hide their stares as Stiles let himself out. He didn't stop to tell his dad how it went, didn't bother to eat anything or grab a drink. Just walked straight out to the fire escape and sank down in his usual place._ _ _

___"Ten years?" he said to his vegetables. "Ten years, and not even a postcard."_ _ _

___It shouldn't have mattered, since it didn't change anything. So he'd thought Derek had been dead for thirteen years; really, it was just for those last three. What did it change?_ _ _

___"Grief is _not_ a weakness," he said to his stupid vegetables as he wrapped his arms around his knees and tried not to cry._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___The halfway program was good. The pack had purchased a whole building and named it Beacon Tower, a tribute to the pack's hometown even though it wasn't nearly tall enough to be a real tower, but it still made something in Stiles's chest ache every time he walked in. Stiles didn't really do all that much, but it was something. Mostly he just sat around in the lobby. Sat around, read books or chatted, and was the only human who wasn't terrified._ _ _

___The lycans tended to stare at him more than talk to him, especially at first. He did three shifts of just sitting there before one of them finally approached, and then it was only to ask, "How did you... you know... get marked as pack?"_ _ _

___Stiles ran his hand over the mark on his shoulder. These lycans were all so recently freed that none of them knew Derek. Which was probably for the best -- he was the only human Derek had ever marked, so if they'd been able to recognize his scent, his identity would have been blown entirely. Not that he thought the lycans would out him or anything, but still. The fewer people who knew, the better, even now that it all seemed moot._ _ _

___Since they were all learning to tell when someone lied, he stuck to a simple version of the truth: "I grew up in Beacon Hills. I was there when a lot of the early movement stuff was happening, and I wanted to help out. But I'm not allowed to talk about anything more specific, you know, because of all the people who were involved back then..."_ _ _

___Looking awed, another lycan asked, "If you can say... is that because you knew, like, Lahey and Reyes?"_ _ _

___Stiles managed not to chuckle and had to bite down his first response -- yes, he'd known Erica. Biblically. Instead, he said, "Yeah, a little bit. I knew most of the early pack members."_ _ _

___Another lycan said to the second, " _Boyd_ was the one who got him to even come here, you know."_ _ _

___"Then did you know... you know. Derek? Hale?"_ _ _

___Stiles rubbed his shoulder again. "Yeah. Yeah, I knew Derek, a really long time ago. But I can't talk about that. I just -- can't."_ _ _

___None of them asked him anything else about that, but a younger lycan woman with a pink scar around her neck -- a scar that Stiles had learned the Mark Twos had left when they were deactivated -- did ask one other question: "Is that why you're not afraid of us? Because you knew all of them?"_ _ _

___Stiles nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's funny, because I know objectively that any of you could probably rip my throat out if you wanted to, but after awhile, you just stop being intimidated by all that. So. I'm setting up a computer literacy class for anyone who's interested. Let me know if I can sign any of you up."_ _ _

___*_ _ _

___The lycan woman's name was Lucinda. She took Stiles's class, talked with him for hours afterwards, and finally asked if he wanted to do something outside of the halfway program -- if he wasn't afraid of being seen with her in public. She was a pretty enough girl, but the scar on her neck was hard to cover, and it made it obvious she was lycan._ _ _

___But Stiles liked her. She was nice, and bold, and reminded him a little bit of Erica, really. And what was anyone going to do, call him a lycanlover? Insults never bothered him, and now that he was pushing into middle age, he couldn't bother being intimidated by the kinds of idiots who used them._ _ _

___So they went out a few times. It was fun, but a little bit weird. She was bold about asking questions, determined not to shy away from everyone who stared at her, but she was also skittish and _young_. She was only 25, and in some ways, even younger than that -- she didn't remember anything about the four years she'd spent under the Mark Two collar. It was like those years hadn't happened._ _ _

___"I don't _want_ to remember," she told Stiles one night, curled up against him._ _ _

___He stroked her cheek, brushed her hair off of her neck, and kissed her scar._ _ _

___It ended after a month. She met another survivor, with a neck scar to match hers. He was closer to her age, understood everything she'd been through, and wouldn't break if she got a little too rough with him. She looked really afraid when she told Stiles, but he just hugged her and wished her the best._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___Scott and Allison came to visit Beacon Tower a few months later, with their two kids. Stiles got all choked up, seeing them so happy. The boy had Allison's dark hair and Scott's stupid grin; the girl had Scott's eyes and Allison's cheekbones._ _ _

___"Let's go for a walk," Allison said, taking Stiles's shoulder. She and Scott flanked him, leaving the kids at the building. They'd be safe, Stiles realized. Boyd may have been the movement's leader, but Scott was at least as well known among the lycans, and the fact that Allison had left her own family to join the movement still astounded people. Their wedding had been a huge deal, and these kids -- the lycans all looked at these kids as hope embodied by curly hair and big eyes. These kids would never, ever have to be afraid when they were surrounded by lycans._ _ _

___Scott did that thing where he cocked his head, listening and scenting, before he nodded at Allison. Who said, "We've gotten some really fucked up information from you-know-who. It looks like there are still some collar facilities functioning."_ _ _

___" _What_?" Stiles gasped. All of the Argent facilities should have been deactivated. The Bill had required it._ _ _

___"The government is helping cover it up," Allison said, her voice low and dangerous. "We've only got the location of one for sure, but we suspect there are more somewhere. Scott and I are taking a team."_ _ _

___"We just wanted to see you, first," Scott said. "Just in case... just in case."_ _ _

___Stiles swallowed. "Why would the government help hide a collar facility?"_ _ _

___They didn't have an answer for that._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___They didn't send word when they did it. Stiles watched the news, but he knew there wouldn't be any, because if the facility was that secret, then the government would never let word get out if it was raided or destroyed._ _ _

___But word _did_ leak about one thing: admitted lycan terrorist Erica Reyes had escaped from custody._ _ _

___"Well," Stiles told his potted plants, "at least that's one fewer friend to mourn. Stay safe, Erica."_ _ _

___"I always do, Batman."_ _ _

___He stared as she dropped down from the fire escape above his. "I thought I was downgraded to Robin," he said, gaping, but he in no way resisted when she pulled him into a fierce, fast hug._ _ _

___"I can't stay. I'm a person of interest, you know. I shouldn't even have come, but... I just needed to see a friendly face before I disappear forever."_ _ _

___"You have somewhere safe to go?"_ _ _

___She nodded. "They've got it all set up for me. It's somewhere tropical, where the government doesn't extradite."_ _ _

___"Nice," he said._ _ _

___She kissed him. "Be good, Batman."_ _ _

___"You, too."_ _ _

___She danced back up onto the railing, obviously preparing to drop down to the alley floor below, but paused. "Do you still leave your windows unlocked at night?"_ _ _

___"Yeah," Stiles said._ _ _

___She smirked. "Good." Then she was gone._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___He tried not to get his hopes up. If they'd been holding Erica in the collar facility, and the pack hadn't known about it, then maybe..._ _ _

___Not that he spent way longer than necessary watering his plants every night, staring up at the sky and hoping. Though for the first time, when he looked up and really thought about it, he realized he couldn't even see the moon._ _ _

___"If he is alive, he's probably got more important things to do," he said conversationally, like his veggies were going to answer him. "I mean, it's not like there were ten years he let me think he was dead or anything. It's not like he never came by, just to say, ‘Hey, I'm alive, so you don't have to live with the crushing guilt anymore. You don't have to think you _killed_ me.'"_ _ _

___He realized it was the first time he'd thought that, too. Not that he'd killed Derek: he had lived with that guilt for ages. But that Derek and Boyd and the others had _let_ him think that. Maybe Derek had wanted him to move on, but how could he ever have moved on when he blamed himself? _ _ _

___He slammed the window shut and threw the lock._ _ _

___The immediately unlocked it again, and muttered, "If you're alive, you'd better come explain yourself, Hale."_ _ _

___*_ _ _

___Four months went by. He brought his plants inside for the winter, since he didn't want them to die of frost. He checked the lock every night, but he didn't open the window._ _ _

___*_ _ _

___It was cold in his room. Stiles frowned, pulling his blankets up to his ears, but why the hell was it so cold? His window was shut, and the building's heat was on. It only had one setting, which he fondly referred to as Mordor, so it shouldn't have been cold._ _ _

___He sat up groggily and looked towards the window._ _ _

___Where he saw Derek, looking like hell, slumped unconscious on the floor._ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles vaulted out of bed and over towards him, trailing blankets and sheets behind him, and landed kneeling next to Derek. Derek was half-lying on the floor, propped up against the wall under the window frame. He looked awful, not just older but so thin he must have been starved for ages. His face was lined, his hair graying at his temples, his skin paper-white and colored only bruises that weren't healing at all.

"Derek, wake up, please wake up. Derek, Derek, oh my god, open your eyes, please. _Please_."

Derek's hand shot out and wrapped around Stiles's throat. He felt claws and screwed his eyes shut, but ---

"Stiles?"

The clawed hand released him. Derek was blinking, his eyes fading from glowing blue to regular hazel, and he didn't look like he knew what was going on.

"Yes, it's me," Stiles confirmed. "What do you need? Where are you hurt? _How_ are you hurt? Tell me -- tell me something, damn it, how can I help you?"

"Wolfsbane." Derek heaved a breath. "I was -- slow. They had a wolfsbane gas bomb, it knocked me out."

"Shit," Stiles breathed. "Do you need, like...an oxygen tank? To get the rest of that shit out of your lungs?"

"No, no, you don't... you don't understand." Derek was wearing someone else's clothes, clearly; they didn't fit and it wasn't his usual leather jacket. It was someone's old sweats and a hoodie. He pulled the neckline away from his body.

It was hard to see with just the light that streamed in from the alley, but Stiles could make out a harsh, pink scar around Derek's neck.

"I don't remember -- I don't know -- it's like I've been in some kind of fog. There was a bomb, and then... I can't... Chris Argent was pulling a collar off me and telling me to run, and... I think we were by a lake. I've been... I've been... I smelled lycans in a group, followed the scent back to the city."

"They were on a camping trip," Stiles said. The group from Beacon Tower had gone out to learn to scent in the fresh air, how to run at full speed, how to stalk and hunt. There had been enough of them for the scent to linger for weeks.

"Camping?" Derek stared at him.

Stiles started to answer, but his jaw dropped instead. "You don't know about the bill passing, you missed -- oh Jesus, Derek. Are you hurt now? Show me. Come on."

Derek pulled the hoodie off. There was no undershirt beneath it, and his shoulder and back were badly burned. The flesh wasn't healing like it should have, and he obviously hadn't stopped to wash the mess away. And in the middle of it all was one bloody, unhealed gash.

"Come on. Let's get that cleaned out." He hauled Derek up, and it was actually terrifying to have Derek lean on him like he might collapse. He grabbed a towel and the first aid kit they kept under the sink. Derek braced himself, hands gripping the edges of the counter so hard that the plastic cracked, as Stiles dabbed away blood and pus. Cleaning the cut actually made it bleed more, but Derek relaxed as it did.

"That's better," he breathed. "So much. I think the knife blade was poisoned. It'll heal now. I can feel it."

Sure enough, as Stiles watched, the flesh on Derek's shoulder began to smooth, the burn fading, the wound closing.

"You seem more alert," Stiles hazarded. "Can you tell me anything more? About what happened?"

Derek heaved a breath. "Yeah. Yeah. Let me go make some coffee."

"No," Stiles said, and at Derek's surprised look, added, "What you're wearing is disgusting. Shower. Find something to put on in my room. Nothing'll fit, but I've got some old shirts you can stretch, and my sweatpants should be fine. I'll make the coffee."

Derek just nodded. Stiles left him to it and headed out to the kitchen. He not only made coffee, he raided the fridge. He was piling a plate with leftovers when Derek came out, wearing Stiles's things, his hair damp and too long. He still looked exhausted, haggard, but not on the brink of death anymore.

"Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to."

"I did, actually. Eat. And talk."

"At the same time?"

"And leave the jokes to me, you're not funny. Talk with your mouth full, I don't care. Just tell me what happened."

Derek took a few bites, chased them with a long swig of coffee, and made a face. "Mud. This is why I never let you make the coffee."

"Derek, I swear to god, tell me what happened or I'll kill you myself."

"I don't _know_ ," Derek said. "Argent took the collar off me, but he had wolfsbane in his gun so I wouldn't just turn around on him. He told me to run. We were by a lake, in some... _facility_. I ran, but hunters followed. One of them got too close and knifed me. There were arrows, after that, and one was on fire."

He shuddered, and Stiles gripped his own coffee mug harder. Derek's family had died in a fire. Fire was the one thing that scared him.

"I got away. They were tracking me, but I... stopped them."

Tore their throats out, Stiles translated. He just nodded.

"I don't know what happened," Derek continued. "Or where we were, or why Argent... How long have I been gone?"

Stiles did the math, working from what Boyd had told him. "Four years, or something like that. Jesus, you missed so much."

"You said the bill passed. The -- the Freedom Bill?"

Stiles nodded. "Two years ago. The lycans you smelled, they're all recovering. Free. Forming a pack bond, learning how to function. I just... help them learn how to cope with humans."

"You are hard to cope with," Derek deadpanned.

Stiles slammed his coffee down. "Shut up. Shut _up_ , Derek, I thought you were _dead_. For a decade I left my window open just in case -- in case you were alive, but you never even sent me word that you -- _don't_ make jokes."

Derek looked down at his food guiltily. "I'll go to the lycans tomorrow. Get out of your hair."

" _No_ , damn it." Stiles crossed his arms. "We don't know if anyone knows you're here, we don't know why Argent helped you, or where you've been. You're not going out anywhere. You're just -- you're just staying. Right here. Until we know something more."

"Are you telling me what to do?" Derek demanded.

"Yes." Stiles stared him down, waiting for the rush of guilt that usually came at the idea of ordering Derek around -- Derek, who'd been a slave, his _family's_ slave. But it didn't come this time, because he knew he was right, and there was no way in hell he was going to risk letting Derek out of his sight. Not now that he knew Derek was _alive_. And he knew that if he shouted loud enough, Derek might actually listen to him. It wasn't something that had happened a lot, but Derek did care what he had to say, sometimes. Or at least, he used to.

Derek stared at him for a long minute. Then, finally, nodded. "Okay."

Stiles relaxed at that, just a little. He took a deep breath. "Eat up. I'll get some sheets for the couch."

Derek watched at him as he stood up, but as he walked by, Derek reached out and grabbed his wrist with one hand, brought the other up to his shoulder, traced at where the scar was under Stiles's shirt.

"Your window was open," Derek said.

"Every night." Stiles pulled his arm free. He put sheets on the couch, did the dishes as Derek lay down, and hoped Derek really would still be there in the morning. 

It took him hours to fall asleep. 

*

He woke to the scent of coffee and stumbled out of bed. It was still early, the sun not even up yet, but given all of his tossing and turning there was no point in lying in bed anymore.

Derek met him with a cup of coffee, pressed it silently into his hands. Stiles nodded his thanks and sank into a seat at the tiny kitchen table, then took a satisfying gulp. He'd somehow forgotten that Derek's coffee was liquid pleasure. Actually, everything Derek made was exquisite. Apparently it was something to do with having a super-powered nose, and most lycans were fantastic cooks.

But the coffee wasn't just good, it was _familiar_. It hit Stiles somewhere visceral, sending dozens of memories pouring through his mind. His cheeks went warm as he remembered being an awkward teenager, staring at a man who was simultaneously the most attractive and most terrifying person he'd ever seen.

He glanced over at Derek, now leaning over the stove, and swallowed. Derek looked better now than he had in the middle of the night -- still pale but not dangerously so, clean-shaven, with his now salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and tousled, since it was too long and it wasn't like Stiles was stocking his preferred products. But it looked nice. And the way Stiles's ancient shirt pulled across his shoulders and arms as he reached for the pot on the stove was --

Derek's head snapped around towards the hall. He blinked, then set the pot back on the stove, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured another cup of coffee. Stiles just watched as Derek silently added cream and sugar, stepped towards the hall, and damn, his timing was impressive. He was holding it out like some kind of mystic offering when Stiles's father walked into the room.

Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but what was there for him to say? His father's gaze was fixed on Derek. He set the coffee aside on the counter, grabbed Derek's arm, and pulled him into a tight, clinging hug. Derek's eyes went wide before his face returned to its usual, unreadable mask, but he didn't pull away until Stiles's dad did, and Stiles remembered that, for all their relationship was just as complex and even more fraught than Stiles's own relationship with Derek, his father also loved Derek, and had given everything up for Derek, too.

"The coffee's perfect, Dad," Stiles said, raising his own mug. 

"Of course it is," Derek said, and nodded towards the second chair at the kitchen table. "Sit. The oatmeal's about to burn. We'll talk once I've saved it."

His father half-laughed and sat, wiped at his eyes for a second, and then started drinking his coffee. "Wouldn't want the oatmeal to burn," he managed.

Stiles sipped his coffee and waited as long as he could before bursting out, "Do you remember anything else? Now that you've had some time to recover?"

Derek glanced over his shoulder. "Yes. Do you know how awful burnt oatmeal smells?"

Stiles made a face. "I know you think you're funny, but no one else does."

"I do," his father said. 

"Don't help."

His father smiled. "Maybe I'm just glad not to be drinking that mud you always make in the mornings."

"If it's so gross, why do you always drink it?" Stiles griped. But he leaned back in his chair and tried to calm down. Derek pretty much never told anyone anything before he wanted to, so if he wanted to wait until after breakfast, fine. What was another half an hour after fourteen years?

Finally, Derek presented them both with bowls of oatmeal, and then poured his own coffee. There weren't any more chairs, but he leaned back against the counter and looked over at the two of them. "There's not a lot _to_ remember. A wolfsbane gas bomb knocked me out. Everything after there is muddled, but I remember -- I was resistant to their collar. It was mostly Victoria who was there, and some of her assistants. They didn't want to use the Mark Two, they wanted to know everything. I didn't talk."

Stiles swallowed. He knew how the Argents would have tried to get information from Derek, and what Derek must have gone through, if he hadn't spilled anything at all.

Derek's half-nod confirmed it. "They gave up when I tried to kill myself. It was... messy. I almost succeeded."

"Jesus," Stiles murmured.

Derek shrugged. "In the end, they wanted me alive more than they wanted information. I don't know why, but it can't have been for anything good. They put the Mark Two on me. Everything after that is gone, until Chris Argent took the collar off and I ran." He looked over at Stiles. "I don't think I was followed, but the longer I stay here, the more danger you're in. They'll be looking for me."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," Stiles said. "No one knows who we are, where to find us. You'll be as safe here as anywhere else, until you figure out your next step."

"My next step is getting in touch with the Network. And I'm not doing that from here."

"You don't have to," Stiles said. "I'm pretty sure I can do it for you."

*

Stiles went to volunteer at Beacon Tower like usual, but when he got there he bypassed his perch and walked up to the leader's apartment. She wasn't an alpha -- so far, no alphas had recovered enough to bond with packs, and no new alphas had turned up -- but this woman was on the far side of over the hill, and still incredibly fierce. She'd been with the underground when she was younger, having safely slipped away from the Argents as a teen; she'd been captured and collared eventually, but once they'd freed her she'd been one of Isaac's and Erica's fiercest soldiers; and now... well, now she really hated humans.

She tolerated Stiles because of the mark on his shoulder. But she didn't _like_ him.

He braced himself and knocked, and when she answered her door she eyed him suspiciously. Then, staring, she sniffed the air.

"I need to get word to the Network. _He's_ back," Stiles said. 

"I'll tell them," she answered, and shut the door.

*

Derek didn't seem to like being cooped up in the apartment, but he didn't complain. He did pace a lot, and clean everything. He sent Stiles's dad off with a grocery list and took over all of the cooking. He reorganized their closets and kitchen cabinets. He bleached the shower.

After four days, Scott knocked on the door. Stiles's dad opened it, and Scott looked kind of mesmerized. He barely managed to say hello to Stiles's dad before throwing himself at Derek, into Derek's arms.

Derek looked startled, but he hugged Scott back.

"Dude, you are _alive_. You're alive! When we busted out Erica and you weren't there, we gave up hope. And you!" He turned to Stiles and wrapped him in a hug that nearly cracked his ribs. "Man, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Stiles said, giving him a back pat before they pulled apart. "You'd better have pictures of the kids."

"About a million of them," Scott promised. "But first things first. Chris Argent has been trying to get in touch with Allison for the last week. I'm guessing he was involved with... whatever went down."

Derek nodded. "He's the one who released me. I don't know why."

"He's been saying he has information, but he's been pestering us since Victoria died, so --"

"What?" Derek interrupted.

"Yeah, what?" Stiles added.

"What -- oh, right. You're out of the loop, and they've been keeping it quiet. When we got Erica out, um, she and Victoria had a kind of run-in. And, well..."

"Okay, and later you're going to explain all of _that_ in detail," Derek said. "Now, go on. About Chris."

"Right. He's been bugging us since then, offering to trade information for... well, time with the kids." He shrugged. "We've been shutting him down, obviously, but if he might have something real... We don't exactly want the kids cuddling up with him, but..."

"Thank you," Derek said.

Scott grinned at him, lopsided. "You know we'd do anything for you. Are you..." He looked over at Stiles, then back. "Are you okay here? We can move you to a safehouse, or down to Erica's island, if we have to."

Stiles held his breath. Derek had made it clear he was only staying because Stiles had insisted, that he wanted to be on his way and leave Stiles behind. And Stiles really was not ready to be left yet, even if it was a question of safety. 

But Derek didn't immediately take the out. Instead, he looked over at Stiles, his expression a question mark.

"It's up to you," Stiles said, even though he wanted to grab Derek's arm and make him stay, to move him from the couch and into his bedroom. "You know the door's always open for you. Or... the window, anyway."

"Then I'll stay," Derek said.

Something that had been clenched too hard in Stiles's chest eased a little.

"And you," Stiles said to Scott. "Stay for dinner."

"I'm cooking," Derek rumbled.

"Then I _have_ to stay." Scott grinned at them. "You know how much I missed you both, right?"

Stiles smiled a little. "Now about those baby pictures..."

*

Someone shook him awake. He blinked and saw Derek fully dressed; glanced over at his alarm clock and saw it was nearly 2 a.m. He sat up quickly. "What's happening?"

"I have to go. Argent agreed to meet with me."

"But --"

"It's not a trap. I'll be with Allison and the kids. He wouldn't put them in danger. And we'll have backup."

"Then can I come, too?" Stiles demanded.

"No."

"Why not? If there's no danger, and you're willing to send in some _kids_ , why the hell not?"

"I wasn't telling you as an invitation. I just... wanted to say goodbye."

"So you're not coming back?"

Derek stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Leave the window open."

" _No._ " Stiles scrambled out of bed and grabbed Derek's arm. "No."

"Stiles --"

"Just _listen_ to me, Derek! The last time I let you go, you let me think you were dead for years. You let me think that you'd gotten killed trying to save me. You let me think it was _my fault_ you were _dead_."

"It was never your --"

"It was, god damn it, you let me think it _was_." He shoved Derek away from him, or really, shoved himself away from Derek, because Derek didn't budge. "You said to leave my window open, and I did it for years, thinking you were dead, thinking it was how I was mourning you, and then I kept it up even _knowing_ you were dead and now you're back and that's all you'll say?"

"What do you _want_ me to say?"

"I _want_ to go with you," Stiles said, meeting Derek's stare head-on, because there was no reason for him not to go. If it was safe enough for kids, then it was safe enough for him.

He could see Derek chewing that over, and then: "Fine. You have five minutes to pack. Leave your dad a note."

Stiles scrambled to change and shove some things into a bag, to write a note ( _business with D, love you, back in a few days, no red meat while I'm gone_ ), and they took off, tracing a path down dark streets towards the halfway house. A car was waiting for them.

They met up with Allison, Scott, and the kids a few hours out of the city, switched to their ridiculous RV, and kept moving. A few cars flanked them, and they all stopped every few hours for meals and stretch breaks.

They drove for a full day, rotating drivers so people could sleep. Stiles mostly hung out with the kids, getting to know them, playing and having fun. But he listened in when he could, as Allison shared tense information with the others. 

They stopped at a motel a few hours before the meeting, so everyone could shower and freshen up. Stiles found himself more nervous than he expected, considering how safe this was supposed to be -- and that an entire cell that had once answered to Erica and Isaac was behind them, ready to take out anyone who threatened them.

The meeting was at a public park. Argent didn't come alone either, but his people made a big show of setting down their weapons. His face actually lit up when he saw the kids, but Allison strode forward.

"Business first," she said. "Then we get to the family picnic."

He nodded. She gestured and one of the lycans brought over a table setup. It wasn't designed for so many people, but she, Scott, her father, Derek, Stiles, and two more Argent lackeys managed to squeeze in.

Argent finally started talking: "My father's death should have left the facilities in my hands. It didn't. Everything was deeded to Victoria. You know something about that, Hale?"

Derek shrugged. "I wanted the Mark Twos gone. She wanted to be in charge. And what the hell did it matter which psychopath was running your operation? I was planning to murder you all eventually, and the more you struggled with each other, the easier it would be to pick you all off."

 _Everyone_ gaped at that, even Stiles. Maybe they'd all known Derek had taken out Gerard, but the entire idea of him bargaining with an Argent was crazy. And yet apparently it had worked.

Argent narrowed his eyes. "Maybe it mattered more than you thought. Because she deactivated the Mark Twos, but she was also building facilities in secret, with government backing. Even I didn't know about them. Do you all get that? _I didn't know_."

It must have been true, because none of the werewolves objected, and they'd never have agreed to meet if he had a scentblocker.

"I've found two of them, one in New Mexico and one outside of Chicago. I have my own sets of eyes and ears in the Bureau. I found out they were moving Reyes from Illinois down to the southwest, and it was the first I'd heard of either one. And you know what happened to Southwest."

Everyone nodded, and Allison looked down at the table, not able to meet anyone's eyes at all. She was so devoted to Scott and the lycans that it was easy to forget that Chris and Victoria were her parents. It had been years, _decades_ , since she'd walked away from them, but that didn't mean it was easy.

"Well," Argent continued, after the moment passed. "One of Victoria's people burned all her drives when we got word. I've been trying to get information off them, but it's a mess." He nodded at one of his lackeys, who handed over a paper bag that clanked with computer parts. "Here's what I've learned: she was experimenting with a new collar, and Reyes was one of the test subjects. Hale would have been next in line if she'd gotten it to work properly. The goal -- the goal was to keep the unquestioning obedience of the Mark Two, but allow the subject to remember everything. Actually answer our questions, give us useful information. But..." He shook his head. "She was close but not there yet when the facility went up, and her research was lost with her. God knows I'm not interested in recreating it."

No one reacted, so that must have been the truth, too. Which was also weird. He was an Argent, but that sounded an awful lot like mercy. 

"Things have been falling apart," Argent continued. "There'd been a split in the family for a long time. And I want to make this clear: we will never be allies, lycan. I want nothing to do with you and your kind. But this war solves nothing, and public sentiment is changing. I'd rather adapt than go extinct."

Derek inclined his head, just once. Not a nod, just an acknowledgement. 

"Victoria and I... didn't see eye to eye. I found out about the facilities and the experiments after she died, and decided to end them. It... didn't go well."

"You've lost control entirely," Derek said.

Argent hesitated, then nodded. "There's a group that's loyal to me. And I wasn't trying to save you. I don't give a damn about you, Hale. I wanted my people out of that facility before yours could _take_ them out. But it went FUBAR, and we found _you_."

"And released me."

"Yes, well." He spread his hands on the table. "I wanted to see my grandchildren."

Derek snorted. "You saved my life to blackmail Scott and Allison?"

"Scott and Allison are currently blackmailing _me_ for information."

"You," Scott said, and smiled widely, "are not as evil as you pretend to be."

Allison and Derek both turned to glare at him, but Argent smiled a little, and so did Stiles. He kind of suspected it was true. 

Argent continued, "When I let you go, it was in the middle of a shitstorm. My crew and I barely made it out alive; the people chasing you were actually chasing _me_. Be grateful, lycan. You were still collared when I found you. I didn't _have_ to let you go. I could have turned you into my slave."

"I've already been your slave," Derek said, voice cold and steady.

Argent winced, and Stiles finally understood. Derek _had_ been a slave to the Argent family, not just in the abstract way all lycans had been, but very, very directly. Kate Argent had tortured him -- but Chris never had, as far as Stiles knew. For Chris, lycan hunting and slavery wasn't about personal hatred or torture. He really believed it was the only way to keep the world safe from a threat. But he'd stood back and let Kate do whatever she wanted, and he'd never stood up to his father, when he'd encouraged Kate. And now... now he was still carrying around guilt from it.

Guilt that meant that, no matter _what_ he thought of the lycans, he'd felt obligated to free Derek.

"Like I said. Victoria's people burned her information that night. Those drives are all I recovered. You'll have to do whatever decoding and salvaging you can on your own."

Again, it was the truth, because the werewolves in the group accepted it. 

"Was it your wife holding me?" Derek asked him. "Or the government?"

"Does it make a difference? They knew you'd die before you'd give them anything. All they _did_ was hold you, for years, waiting for Victoria's breakthrough on the Mark Three."

"It _does_ make a difference," Derek said.

Argent hesitated, then said, "Victoria." 

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. I just -- it was Victoria, with government backing. Protection. They were hiding it, even from me, and funding her, waiting for that breakthrough. That was their price: they bankrolled Victoria, because once she had the Mark Three working, she'd have handed you over."

"Why?" Derek demanded. "The Freedom Bill passed while she had me. Why bother keeping me alive after that?"

"She didn't even tell me she had you in custody, you think I know that?" Argent shook his head. "But I've been getting calls from her contacts since then. From what I pieced together, there are still plenty of people with power who are terrified of you and your Network. They wanted everything you knew, to prepare for some kind of uprising." He rolled his eyes. "And they wanted to have _you_ ready to use. A Mark Three would have let you keep your personality and still make you do what you were told. Like become a mouthpiece for them."

"And you think no one would have noticed the collar?"

"It might not have been a full collar. Just a chip. I don't know, it was Victoria's research, not mine. I never wanted any part of it. That's why she was hiding it from me. But I'd watch my back if I were you, Hale. If they were that scared of you, they won't just give up."

"And what about you, Argent?" Derek's eyebrows quirked. "Are you that scared of me?"

"No," Argent said. "No. I know what you're capable of; I don't fear it. But I've lost every single member of my family to lycans -- in one way or another." He glanced over at Scott and Allison. "I'm done. I just want to see my grandkids." 

*

The kids were roasting marshmallows with their grandfather while Scott supervised when Derek said to Stiles, "That's why."

"What?"

"I didn't tell Victoria anything. I would have died first, and Victoria and her contacts realized they couldn't break me -- not like that. And there was no one who... They _did_ look for you. Ask Argent if you don't believe me."

"I do believe you." Stiles pulled his knees up to his chest, watching the kids silhouetted by the fire. "I just don't see --"

"If they'd found you, if they'd had you --"

"You wouldn't have --"

"Yes, I would." Derek looked over at him, fierce, and Stiles's heart stuttered for a moment and he _wanted_. "If they had you, if they tortured you, I would have. I realized that when the FBI took you. There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe."

"Why?" Stiles stared at him. "Why me, Derek? You've never... everything that's happened, you've never told me why. You've never even told me what you _want_ from me."

Derek looked away from him. "I thought you knew."

"Seriously? All I know that you used to climb in through my window and take over my life. Sometimes you'd put your arm around me. Usually by accident. I know you marked me, and I know that's all you've ever done."

"Stiles..."

"And that's fine. It is. I'd never push you, okay? You don't like falling asleep near other people, that's fine. You hate using the front door, so I never lock my windows. It's fine. You let me think I'd gotten you killed, it's _fine_. I just need to know if it's... if it means anything."

Derek stared at him.

"It's okay if it doesn't," Stiles said, his voice going a little hoarse when Derek didn't answer. "If there's nothing. That's... fine. But you mean something to me. You do."

"Still? You should have... you thought I was dead. You should have moved on."

"Moved on? Seriously?" Stiles sat back, leaning on his arms, and let his hand slip over towards Derek's. Derek didn't pull away, but jerked his head around to stare as Stiles's fingers grazed his. "I didn't. I couldn't, and I never will."

"Did you try?"

"Yes."

"You're lying."

Stiles sighed. "I _tried_. Half-heartedly. I dated sometimes. I never fell for anyone, though." He snorted. "This is so fucking stupid. I want you. And I'm right here, and I'll be here whether you want me back or not. So either way, you've got nothing to lose if you tell me, so spit it out already. Tell me _something_. Please."

"I want you to be safe."

"Derek --"

"I _need_ you to be safe. More than I need you to be happy."

"And what about _your_ happiness? Does that even enter into it?"

"It never has." He paused. "We'll need to move you again after this."

" _What?_ You can't just -- you can't just hide me away and never see me again. If you give even half a damn about me, you can't --"

"I have to. Because I do give a damn about you, because I do -- I do have feelings. For you." Derek shifted slightly, pulling his hand away. "But being with you puts you in danger, and if the people who hate me ever find you, then it puts a lot more than just your life at risk. I can't do that to you, and I can't do that to the pack. So until I find a better solution, it has to be like this. It has to."

Stiles looked away, trying hard just to keep his breathing under control, to keep _everything_ under control, because Derek was right. If Derek really did love him the way he loved Derek, then... shit. The fact that they wanted to be together was exactly why they couldn't be, because Stiles wasn't going to risk anything else happening to Derek because of him. Derek, or the pack.

"It isn't fair," he croaked, when he finally managed to force words out.

"No, it isn't."

"Will you at least work on it?" Stiles asked him. "Try to find some way?"

"I'll do what I can," Derek said. 

But he didn't sound optimistic. 

*

They took off for home that night, once the kids were tired and Allison declared their agreement with her father fulfilled. Argent didn't argue, just watched as she ushered the kids away from him and into the RV, his expression longing. For a heartbeat, Stiles actually felt sorry for him -- he was old and alone and had lost nearly everything. But after all the damage he'd done, the cruelty he'd shown, Stiles's pity couldn't last longer than that.

The lycans who'd accompanied them arranged themselves into their groups, everyone shuffling around into different cars based on who was going where. With Scott and Allison heading back towards California and most of the lycans following, there weren't many other people heading back to Chicago, so Stiles found himself in a car with just Derek, and the feeling that Derek had pretty specifically chosen to escort him. But neither one of them said anything about it.

In fact, given how long the trip home was, it was remarkable how much they avoided saying anything important. Not that Stiles wasn't thinking it, that every mile that ticked by didn't feel like he was a mile closer to Derek disappearing again. But if he let himself focus on that, he wasn't going to be able to hold it together, so instead he filled up the silence talking about things that didn't matter at all. The weather, terrible TV shows Derek had missed in the last few years, how no one in Chicago appreciated lacrosse (frankly, neither did Derek, something they'd been arguing about since Stiles was sixteen), Stiles's job at the library, his fire escape garden, his father's attempts at internet dating. 

Nothing about the conversation they'd had by the campfire. Not until they were well into the city and the scenery was all familiar, and they were closing in on home. Then Stiles couldn't help himself. "Do you want to come up for awhile? Rest before you hit the road again?"

"I've got work to do."

"Okay, how about just food? Even you need to eat sometimes. Let's stop for a bite."

"Stiles, I can't."

"You mean won't." He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest as Derek pulled up in front of his building. "And I'm not going to see you again. Am I?"

"I don't know," Derek said. "I want to -- it doesn't matter what I want." 

"It matters to me."

Derek didn't say anything to that, and finally Stiles just unbuckled his seatbelt and fished around in the back to grab his bag. "Well. Then I guess that's it. I'll see you... someday. I hope."

Derek nodded, then reached out and grabbed Stiles's elbow. "Your window. Leave it --"

"Yeah," Stiles said, then stopped. He sank back down in the seat and dropped his bag. "No, fuck that. You owe me. The last time you wanted me to leave the window open, you made me think it was because you were coming back, and then you didn't. What the hell was with that?"

"I wanted you to move on," Derek said. "If you thought I was dead, then --"

"I thought I'd gotten you killed!" Stiles stared him down. "Because you implied, you -- you basically said you'd come back. But you didn't and you let me think you were _dead_. You don't get to do that to me again."

"What do you want me to do?" Derek demanded. "I wanted you to have a life, to get to start again, and I'm _not_ involving you in all of this."

"I can handle all of this. I can --"

"I can't. If you're involved, I'll have to protect you. You'll be my priority and I can't do that. You understood this yesterday!"

"And I understand it now! But you don't get to just vanish again. Do you know what I went through? I hated myself, and I was so alone, and I couldn't -- I can't do that again. If you want me to disappear and start again, then I will, I'll do anything I can. But if you're going to pull that open window shit, then you _owe_ me."

"What do you want?"

"A promise." Stiles stared at him. "I want you to promise me you'll be in touch. You'll let me know that you're okay. I get a phonecall, a letter, an email, I don't care what. But I get to know that, this time."

Derek nodded.

"Good. Okay. And if something ever happens to you, the pack contacts me. Immediately. Because I deserve to know."

"Fine."

"And..." Stiles groped for something else, something to make up for the years they'd missed, for his seething anger and guilt and _all_ of it. Everything between the two of them, everything they didn't get to have. He met Derek's eyes and swallowed, then demanded, voice shaking, "And I want to kiss you."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah," Stiles said. "Right now. I want to kiss you, so that if something happens... if something happens to you, at least I'll have that. This one thing. Please."

Derek gaped at him, his mouth actually falling open a little bit.

"Can I?" Stiles asked.

The shocked look didn't fade from Derek's face, but he nodded. And he didn't move, didn't pull away, when Stiles leaned across the space between seats, and pressed his lips to Derek's. Actually, for a moment Derek didn't do anything at all -- and then he was leaning in, his hand was on Stiles's cheek, his lips opened and oh god. Oh _god_. It wasn't exactly everything Stiles had dreamed of since he was a teenager, and he had a sudden flash of realization that he was more experienced at this than Derek. But it didn't matter how awkward it was. It was Derek, it was Derek letting Stiles kiss him, it was something real and concrete and it was almost terrifying how much Stiles wanted it, how devastated he was the second Derek finally pulled away.

"Stiles..."

"I should go." Stiles was breathing too hard, like he was having a panic attack or something. It was too much. He wanted it desperately, wanted to grab Derek again, kiss him and keep him, but he couldn't, so instead he groped for his bag and the door handle. 

Derek grabbed his arm, tugged until Stiles looked back at him, even though Stiles wasn't sure he could handle even just _looking_ at Derek and knowing he'd probably never get to kiss him again. Derek let go of his arm, met his eyes, and for just a second Stiles saw the same raw _need_ that he felt, right there, reflecting back at him. 

"I'll find a way," Derek said. "I will."

This time, Stiles believed him.

*

They moved him to Seattle and gave him a new name -- goodbye Gene Smith, hello Jim Thomas. He went to work at a university library and discovered they had a special lycan collection and a major project in progress: a collection of lycans' stories, all carefully recorded and archived, and more lycans coming by every month to contribute. Stiles offered to do some interviews and transcribing. They were hesitant to let him work on it, since it was a project that required all kinds of special training, until the first time a lycan actually came in to interview after Stiles started his job.

The lycan, a thirty-something with thick eyebrows, ignored the interviewer and walked over to Stiles's desk, scented the air, and stared at him. Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

"You've already helped us all. You're -- " He looked around furtively. "Aren't you?"

"I was, but that was a long time ago," Stiles said. 

The interviewer caught up with him and stared back and forth between Stiles and the lycan. "Do you two know each other?"

The lycan shook his head. "No, but, uh..."

"Jim," Stiles supplied.

"Jim and I used to... run in some of the same circles, I think."

After that, they let him work on the lycan history project, interviewing lycans who all looked at him with something like awe.

*

Derek never sent letters, but he did call -- probably because that way, Derek didn't need to know Stiles's address. The calls were always short and to the point: "Hello, Stiles. I'm okay. Be safe." Click.

But it was better.

With this identity, Stiles had a house and a yard -- a small one, true, but a yard nonetheless. He transferred his vegetables into the ground and started a real garden.

And he never locked his window.

*

It hit the news six months after his relocation: Derek Hale was sighted publicly for the first time in years. He was alive and well and living in New York. The media started following him around, freaking out, demanding to know where the hell he'd been for the last decade and a half. Why had he vanished? Did the scar around his neck really mean he'd been collared? How did he feel about Boyd's leadership while he was gone? Was he going to wrestle back dominance of the Beacon Hills Pack?

Derek just glared a lot, an expression that looked even more menacing on the dark Daehler filters. Boyd flew out to meet him, as if they hadn't been in touch for most of Derek's missing years, and Derek went to a bunch of meetings and functions in DC.

It was interesting to follow, and Stiles waited for his phone to ring. If nothing else, he figured Derek would want to bitch about it. But now that paparazzi were making it clear he was alive and safe, he didn't call at all.

* 

Stiles was twenty minutes into interviewing an ancient lycan named Louis, and it was a big deal, because Louis was an alpha. He'd been locked to the Argent moonstone for nearly thirty years, aware of nothing but the dreams and nightmares of lycans whose collars fed off his will. But unlike most alphas, when he'd been released, he was lucid. Not always, he relapsed sometimes, collapsing into his mind and murmuring incoherently -- but he was awake enough to have his own place, to travel, to agree to the interview.

His experiences were so odd and fascinating. He spoke about the things he'd dreamed, twisted half-memories that had stuck with him. So Stiles was _really_ annoyed when one of the other library staff members broke in and sputtered, "Sorry, sorry for the interruption, but you need to see this. Come on!"

"See what?" Stiles asked. "We're in the middle of --"

"Bring him. It's lycan business anyway. _Hurry_ , we've got it streaming down at the info desk."

Stiles shot Louis an apologetic look. "I have no idea, but..."

Louis didn't object, just let himself be led down to the main desk, where most of the library staff and a few patrons were crowded around one monitor, streaming a presidential address. 

"Sometimes," the president was saying, "we have to make moves that may not be popular, may not be good politics -- but that are right. The lycan problem has always presented us with those difficult choices."

Stiles swallowed, suddenly nervous. Argent had come out and said there were people in power who still feared the lycans -- and plenty of politicians hadn't been quiet about wanting to undo the Freedom Bill, and there were constant rumors that it was going to happen. But if it did, Stiles realized there would be no warning. The Argents or government agents would seize as many lycans as possible before it was announced, to keep them from hiding, running, fighting back. He scanned the library, looking for exits. If this was _that_ announcement, he'd get Louis out. Get him to Beacon Hills, somehow, where the peaceful arm of the movement was settled -- where no one knew they'd been preparing for decades. If push came to shove, Boyd's carefully built, peaceful movement was prepared to defend their freedom to the death.

But thank god, the president continued. "This has been a hard choice, but it's what I believe is right. Our country must move beyond the bloody battles over lycan rights, must begin to forgive, and heal. We have a long way to go, but I offer this as a first step." 

The President took a deep breath, nervous, and the camera pulled out to show the rows of advisors behind him. The screen went dark-tinted and slightly lined as it switched to a Daehler lens. Stiles actually gasped when he saw why: wearing suits, sitting with the stone-faced politicians, were Derek and Boyd.

"This morning, I signed two blanket pardons for crimes that _may_ have been committed as part of the lycan freedom struggle." He gestured towards Derek and Boyd. "These two lycan men were instrumental in this fight, and both suffered and endured great personal loss, like so many of their lycan brethren."

 _And sistren_ , Stiles thought, thinking of Erica. But at least with the Daehler lens, everything was too dark to see the scar on Derek's neck. 

"I am also pleased and proud to announce that, as the long time voice of the lycan rights movement, Vernon Boyd, as the elected head of the lycan enclave in Beacon Hills, has agreed to accept a newly-created post in my cabinet, as Secretary of Lycan Affairs."

Stiles stared at the screen, as the president continued his address. He was putting together a committee to determine how best to help lycans integrate into society, to draw up an amendment on lycan rights that would be ratified into the constitution, guaranteeing full rights, which not even the Freedom Bill had done.

"This is amazing," Louis murmured, then gave Stiles a concerned look. "Are you alright?"

Stiles nodded, swallowing, throat dry and head swimming, because they'd -- they'd pardoned Derek. Meaning that even if they kept him on watch lists forever, even if they never stopped tracking him and making sure they knew where he was, Derek could go anywhere he wanted, with his head held high.

"Are you sure?" Louis asked him, as they padded back towards the room where he did interviews. 

Stiles nodded again, dazed.

"The lycans clearly mean a lot to you," he mused. "You're the only human pack member I've ever met."

"I, uh, yeah," Stiles said, reflexively bringing his hand up to brush the mark on his shoulder. "Yeah, I grew up in Beacon Hills, I know... I've known a lot of lycans. That was amazing, what just... Derek and Boyd, oh my god. Oh my _god_."

Louis raised his bushy eyebrows, probably able to guess there was more to it than that, but he didn't say anything.

*

Stiles spent the rest of the day reading the headlines, every piece of coverage he could. Opinion was split pretty hugely on the pardons -- plenty of people (correctly) took them as a tacit admission of guilt, acknowledgement that Derek and Boyd had both been further involved with the Network than they'd ever said publicly. Which wasn't really a controversial thing to guess about Derek, who had never really hidden his bloodthirsty side very well, but it shocked people about Boyd.

And of course, a lot of people just didn't like it. They'd never trust lycans, and hated any sign that lycans were truly free, full people. The nasty things people said never quite ceased to horrify Stiles, even though he'd heard it all before.

But the _most_ shocking thing was that Derek agreed to do an interview. Just one, with a reporter who'd long been sympathetic to the lycan movement; not live, of course, and he'd get to see the edited final cut before it aired. Even so, it was ready for the news that night.

Stiles and his dad both stared, squinting at the filter that allowed them to see Derek on film.

The reporter, an attractive middle aged woman, asked, "There's a lot of discussion about the time you were... missing from the public eye. The question has to be asked, where were you? What were you doing for all of those years?"

Derek ran his fingers across the scar on his neck. "I was... busy, working for the movement out of sight. It was easier that way. And then I was captured by the Argents, and I was a slave."

He said it with the kind of bluntness that actually made the reporter squirm, and probably everyone watching, too. Everyone liked to pretend that the years of slavery hadn't been a big deal, that the lycans had all been fine, not suffered at all. But they'd all seen the footage of teenage Derek and Kate Argent, and as much as Derek hated being an object of pity, he still never let anyone shy away from what had happened -- to him, and to the other lycans.

"You didn't reappear when the Bill passed," the reporter noted in an awkwardly polite tone of voice.

"I wasn't freed when the Bill passed," he answered, just as blunt. "Did you really think the Argents didn't hide anything? That it was all as neat and clean as everyone wanted it to be?"

She looked startled. Like prey, Stiles thought.

"But," Derek continued, "it was Chris Argent himself who made the decision to free me. I choose to take that as a sign of -- reform, among the Argent organization."

"And that's a positive sign?"

"I wouldn't be here otherwise," Derek said.

"And your cooperation with the government -- do you consider it a slight that you weren't asked to fill the Secretary of Lycan Affairs position?"

"What makes you think I wasn't asked?" He flashed her a smile, smug up to his eyebrows. "I'm not a politician. I never have been. I've agreed to act as an advisor when needed, but Boyd is much, much better suited for the role, and the fantastic job he's done in Beacon Hills and for lycans throughout the country really shows that."

"Then you've officially abdicated lycan leadership to him?"

"There was never any need to," Derek said. "My leadership was _never_ official. I'm not an alpha, and I was never elected to anything. I was just the first lycan in a position to fight back."

"Then you don't consider yourself a leader?"

"It doesn't matter what I consider myself. Other people, other lycans, considered me a leader, so I've done what I could. But I'm happy -- I'm relieved -- to sit back and let Boyd do this. He earned the position."

"And what will you do now?" the reporter asked

Derek smiled again -- a real, quiet, genuine smile, not even the smirk from earlier. "I'm going home," he said simply.

"Where's home? Beacon Hills?"

Derek shook his head. "Not anymore."

*

Three days passed. Stiles waited up at every night like he hadn't in years. There was no convenient roof outside his window anymore, though. But there was a sturdy tree with some branches that hung pretty nearby. 

*

Stiles didn't know what woke him. Maybe it was just the shadow over the flimsy curtain. But he sat up, staring, as Derek hoisted the window open and slipped inside. 

"I was wondering when you were going to turn up," Stiles said.

Derek snorted a little. 

"You climbed the tree, right?"

"Yes," Derek said, then, as he peeled his jacket off, "Lie down. Go back to sleep."

Stiles cocked his head like he was considering it, then, "Nah. I'm suddenly just not at all sleepy."

"Well, _I_ am."

"Oh," Stiles said guiltily. He didn't lie down, but he did scoot over and gesture to his rumpled sheets. "I won't keep you up, then. I mean. If this is where you want to sleep. I can put sheets on the couch..."

Derek glanced at him for a second, rolled his eyes, then toed off his shoes and socks and sat down on the bed next to Stiles. 

"Derek?" Stiles prompted, when Derek didn't lie down, but also didn't say anything.

"Your window was open," Derek said.

"Well... yeah," Stiles said. "I was waiting for you. I hoped... you said you were going home."

"Yes. I _am_ home. With you."

Stiles blinked a few times, his chest tightening, but he managed to keep himself under control and buried his face in Derek's cheek. "So you're staying for real?"

"If that's what you want."

Stiles shifted a little closer, until they were sitting together, touching, shoulder to shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, it's... it's what I want. Of course it is. I just can't believe you finally... I mean, you said you'd find a way. I just... I can't believe..."

"Every politician worries about their place in history," Derek said. "Boyd and I just had to convince enough of them to be on the right side. I didn't want to trust... I _don't_ trust them. But there are enough who support us now."

"What about the... others?" Stiles asked. "The ones who always supported the Argents?"

"They no longer have an Argent to support. Chris has begun refusing all contact with them and has made it clear that he will no longer speak for anti-lycan causes. They've lost the battle of public opinion, they've lost the legal battle, and they've lost their figurehead. They can keep fighting in private, but they know they'll lose there, too."

"Wow. All this in six months."

"Six months?" Derek shook his head. "Did you realize, this month is 25 years since you set me free?"

Stiles paused, thinking about everything that had happened since then, everything Derek had done, everything he'd gone through. "No wonder you're tired."

Derek huffed out a half-laugh, then leaned in closer to Stiles, inhaling. Stiles all but shivered just from having him so close, and when Derek pressed his lips to the scar on Stiles's shoulder, Stiles's breath caught in something that was almost a moan.

"You know," Stiles panted, as he let Derek tug him down, under the sheet, "you don't have to use the window anymore. Seriously, the front door. I recommend it. I'll make you a copy of the key and everything."

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek mumbled against him, his breath warm against Stiles's skin. 

Stiles fell quiet and lay in the dark, relaxing as he got used to Derek's bodyheat, to having another body wrapped around his own. It had been a long time, but this -- Derek -- already felt right, familiar. Like it was how things were always supposed to be and he hadn't even realized something was missing without it. 

He lay there and reveled in it, not yet drowsy enough to sleep, but calmer and happier than he'd been in years. And not sleeping was okay, too, because it meant he got to see it, to feel it, for the very first time. Derek's breathing evened out, his body relaxed, and the tension eased out of his face until he was smiling.

Derek Hale was free, and happy, and asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am a nerd who did a lot of plotting and building and whatnot for this 'verse, but I probably won't ever get around to writing other fics in it, if you're curious about anything you're welcome to [ask over on tumblr](http://queenitsy.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Thanks, once again, to destroythemeek and lielabell, who have both been amazingly supportive, wonderful, awesome people. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for sticking this VERY IMPORTANT acknowledgements at the end, but that opening note was already a novella. Ahem:
> 
> This fic would not exist without **Lielabell** 's amazing encouragement, handholding, and cheerleading. I kind of secretly wrote it for her. (That is not a very well kept secret, now that I think about it.)
> 
> This fic would never actually have seen the light of day without **destroythemeek** , who was also incredibly encouraging, and beta read this monster. Believe me, without her, this would make even less sense. 
> 
> Thanks so much. ♥ Also thanks for reading, if you made it all the way down here, lol.


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